SchmidtHaus

It Will Never Happen, But....

2007-05-22T23:32:00.001-07:00

So, maybe this post has something to do with the fact that I went out for beers and buffalo-wings to watch the Sox trounce the Yanks with a couple of buddies. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I gave my two weeks last Tuesday and am none-too-concerned with work for the next week plus. Maybe it has to do with the fact that when my wife is out of town I am far less likely to sleep like a baby than I am to lie in bed with my socks still on my feet, staring at the ceiling, and wondering about next year's New York Jets. So: here is what I have been thinking, lying there, head full of coors, belly full of chicken. I've got the offseason trade that could make the Jets Superbowl Contenders in THREE short years!

The key cog in this trade? Trent Green. Seriously. No joke.

Thus far the Dolphins are the only team in serious talks with Kansas City for Trent's services. The Chiefs, while desperate to unload Green and get younger at QB, keep balking at the offer of a 6th round pick for Green's services. The last thing the Jets need is a second highly effective QB in their division (let's face it, Tom Brady takes two next year with that WR core.) So here's a simple solution: outbid the Fins with what you offer, but ask for MORE in return.

Look, I know I have said this before. I know alot of Jets fans (like my father and my uncle) can't see the light for some reason, but look: Chad Pennington is NOT winning a Super Bowl in his lifetime. Teams have won before on the strength of their defense, and with the benefit of a smart and efficient QB, i understand. But the fact remains, the timing with this Jets team just isn't right to accomodate holding on to Pennington and his unearned salary. Our defense, while it keeps getting stronger is two years from completely jelling, our offensive line is filled with holes that need to be attended to in free agency and drafts, and we are still one Curtis Martinesque RB away from dominance. So I make my proposal with one caveat: the Jets may very well stink this year. But I was willing to take mediocrity over slightly-better-than-average last year, if it meant improvement in the near future, and I echo that sentiment this year. It boils down to this: there are VERY few things I want to see in my life more than a Jets Super Bowl championship. Like, no joke. Here's the list:

1. Healthy family

2. World peace

3. Loyal Friends

....That's it I think. So again, I don't offer this trade lightly. I offer it because I think it could very well be a step towards finalizing the team that offers me the long-sought-after joy of a Super Bowl championship. I offer it, because for the Jets right now it makes sense:

Chad Pennington and The Jets 2nd round pick for Trent Green and the Chiefs 1st and 3rd round pick.

It's a deal that makes sense for everyone. Think about it: Herm LOVES Pennington (for some inexplicable reason that probably is closely related to the fact that Herm is a crappy coach) and the Jets need a veteran QB to provide insurance should we discover our investment in Kellen Clemens was a bust. Green wants an honest competition for the QB slot and with the NYJ he can find one. Meanwhile the Jets flip a second round pick where they would normally be taking a crapshoot on a lineman, and get a first round pick (with as bad as the Chiefs might be next year this could land them Ray Rice) and a third round pick (have you seen next years LB corps?) I'm going to be bold here: I don't see a decent damn reason NOT to propose this trade and see if KC bites. The only reason it wouldn't happen is if Herm ACTUALLY believes Damon Huard is the QB of the future AND ready to start next year in KC. I have to think with Pennington dangled in front of him, Herm would admit this is not the case.

So why does it make sense for the Jets? Well, it only does if you are willing to accept the premise that the Jets are not a Super Bowl caliber team right now. Beyond that you have to be ok with that fact that, given their shortcomings, it is very possible that the Jets aren't even a playoff team for the next couple years. I know that given what happened last year it is hard to resign the Jets to being a non-playoffs team this season. But look at it this way: after watching the Jets spend the last decade of their existence jumping in and out of the playoffs only to lose in the first or second round (and once in the third....UGH!) wouldn't itbe worth it to forgo that tease for a near GUARANTEE at a Superbowl Contender in Dallas 2011?!

But, you say, But GMS, what you have failed to explain here--the crucial details you have failed to provide--who says that we are a contender in 2011 if we make this trade, and why?! Well, believe it or not I don't have the answer to that question. Or not the definitive one at least. But here's what I know about the NFL--everything I know--is it takes three things to win a Super Bowl: a good if not GREAT QB; a solid defense; a running game. Right now the Jets are on their way to ONE of those things. This simple trade gives them 16 games to find out if they have any semblance of a second; it also gives them the opportunites to work on the two areas that still need improvement.

It all boils down to this Jets fans: if you look into the deepest most guttaral part of being a fan, and you can tell yourself that sutained mediocrity is fine, then this trade will make no sense in your eyes. But if it's 2:15 AM and you've been up twirling the Jets future around your unoccupied noggin for a few hours, I think you know what's proper: give me Trent Green, or give me death.

The Jets Annual Draft Blunder

2007-04-30T09:11:00.000-07:00

I love the whole "Grading the Draft" bit you will find on sites like ESPN and Sports Illustrated this morning. Nothing like deciding whether the picks were good or not before these dudes have even played a game. In that light, here's the two grades that matter, calculated by yours truly:

Pats: A++++ With the Pats you have to bear in mind that they saw way ahead of time how weak this draft was, traded for a TON of picks in next years draft, honed in on one player whose talent should have made him a top 10 pick, knew they could get him at their low first round spot, and waited for him. Then they flipped a meaningless fourth-rounder for one of the three most talented wide-outs in the game. Oh yeah, plus they had the best free-agent signing period of any team since the salary cap era began. Add onto this that they were one of the 4 best teams in the NFL last year, and you can draw your own conclusions. Your 2008 Superbowl champs: The New England Patriots. MVP: Randy Moss.

New York Jets: F------------------------- The Jets ostensibly made the exact opposite decisions from the ones guided by last years philosophy of quantity plus underrated quality = good. If they didnt think this years draft was deep they should have done what the Pats did and trade for picks next year. Instead they gave away the farm to move uo 15 spots. What?! This year the guiding philosophy was, apparently: lets only use four picks, and lets trade up to put ourselves in perfect position to draft a franchise quarterback only to pass him up for a corner who was slightly above average on a slightly above average team, but who had a really good combine. Oh yes, and then lets pass up a future pro-bowl back with all kinds of different skill-sets who happens to come from right in our back yard, be an AWESOME human being, and a fan favorite...then take the second best linebacker on an overrated defensive team. Awesome plan Tannenbaum. Next year when Quinn wins RotY and whats-his-face, Darell Revis, from Pitt is getting booed every time he gets burned by Randy Moss, I will be the guy saying "told you so." Also, you didn't think Randy Moss was maybe worth a 3rd round pick? Really?!

All that matters: Jets will win 5 games next year, max (while Clemens goes through growing pains and Pennington sits with a sore pinky-toe.) The Pats will barely beat Quinn and the Browns in the AFC championship game. Pats: SB Champs '08. Browns: SB champs '09. Jets: Perennial Cellar-Dwellers for the rest of my life.

This is Mel Kiper's World, People...We're Just Livin' In It

2007-04-27T10:43:00.001-07:00

A quickie this rainy Friday afternoon. Before I subject myself to two-straight days of sitting on a couch watching baseball and a perpetaully-counting-down-clock with Roger Goodell in my face, let me go on the record with these three things. I know the Jets don't theoretically need a RB/FB, and I know that this guy's a second-rounder, most likely, but I would be THRILLED if the Jets reach down and grab Brian Leonard. I love the guy. It's a man-crush. And I would hate, hate, hate to have to root for him in an Eagles or Giants uni. Secondly, I dont like the pitching match-ups for the Sox this weekend, but I am not as petrified as everyone else is. Other than Petitte who is due to come back down to earth, the Yanks are relying on a career minor-leaguer and a fresh-off the DL, not as sharp as last year, Wang. I think the dull wang pulls one out though, and the yankees avoid the sweep narrowly on Sunday. I won't be watching though, because I will be running a marathon. Followed by consumption of steak. And one or two beers.

I'm Gettin' Back into Gettin' Back into you

2007-04-23T11:18:00.000-07:00

Welp. That didn't last long. Call it a binge, call it a full-blown remission. Whatever you want to call it, it was damn fun.

I watched all three Sox-Yanks games this weekend. Every damn pitch. I couldn't unpeel my ass from the couch. I'm sorry. I know, I know. I'm weak-willed, my addiction owns me. I am pathetic. Listen, I've beaten myself up over this all weekend. And then I decided it was all worth it. It's just not happening: I can't shake it. This feeling I get when Josh Beckett burns one past Derek Jeter's chin, when Papi hustles out a double, when Manny strolls to first like a dog that's just marked his territory after hitting his first HR in a thus-far abysmal spring. I love this feeling. I love the pure organic vitriol I feel for Alex Rodriguez every time he gets a hit. I get weak-kneed watching Mariano Rivera scrunch up his face like a fruitbat on the hunt after blowing a save. Some one check--I think I left my fingers drumming my coffee table while Papelbon mowed down Damon and Jeter in the ninth, and forced April-and-May-Rod into a weakly nubber to third. My heart didn't stop racing from Friday at 7 until this morning sometime. I could barely eat, I didn't sleep much. I could drink. But man, was I on a roll. And why? Because there is no high--NOT ONE--like the high of watching your favorite team slay its rival.

Did I wake up with the hungover lament of a regressed addict? A bit, sure. But consider me one-hundred percent hopeless. Thus far, I have compiled a list of things I love about this Red Sox team, and things I hate about them, and it comes down to this: unless I weigh ideology and principal significantly heavier than gratification and personal-joy, I have no argument not to get sucked back in. This is going to be a damn fun team to watch. Principally hard to root for, perhaps. But damn fun. I don't care that it's only April. The Sox win the AL East, take my word for it. And I will be watching.

In case you're wondering...in lieu of a preview, the lists I compiled in favor of the Sox, and against the Sox.

The Good
Dice-K Even though his game yesterday was sub-par, at best. But even against the best line-up in baseball he had strokes of brilliance. He's not going to be the Ace this year. But some of his sequences are as fun to watch as any pitcher I have ever seen. 15 wins and a sub-4 ERA, alone, will make him worth his salary. The festive-nature of his starts is just a bonus.

Josh Beckett has been phenomenal. That sequence against A-Rod on Friday (curve, slider, change-up, fastball) was ridiculous.

Curt Schilling's Blog Hate the guy, like the player, love the blog.

JD Drew from what I've seen of this guy, you can color me impressed. Maybe he just needed t play for a team where he wasn't the key cog. His patience at the plate is Abreu-esque. Nice fielder, too.

Okajima in the eighth is just fun to say. Papelbon to close the door is even more fun. He's done it enough in big situations now, I can say this confidently: there's no other closer in baseball I would rather have.

Papi and Manny

Is there a better looking park than Fenway?

There are few places that are more fun to be than an NYC bar while the Yankees are struggling...especially against the Sox. It is good to know that Joey Bag-o-Donuts from Staten Island is gonna' kick Joe Torre's ass next time he sees him.

The Bad
Julio Lugo just don't like the guy.

Wily Mo Pena needs to get some more damn at-bats...because right now he looks awful rusty, and at some point the Red Sox need to know whether or not he is going to have a future here.

Roger Clemens please just go back to Houston. I dont want you in the AL East. Period.

The Ugly
I'm addicted to a team that has more-or-less been built in the vain of the Yankees teams I always hated. GREAT.

I Don't Write Satire...I Just Write About People

2007-04-13T05:46:00.000-07:00

Tackling the Imus Issue when the Horse has been Dead, Stewed and Swallowed; God Bless You Mr. Vonnegut, and Moving on.

A few years back, on a thanksgiving weekend trip from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, to Providence, Rhode Island, I sat shotgun while a friend of mine drove. We were still coming down of a 24-hour whirlwind of margaritas, Irish Coffee's, bloodymary's and Keystone Light (I hadn't seen this friend in quite some time, we'd a bit of catching up to do.) The whole trip we kept ourselves awake with the grating tunes of pop-radio stations (those beloved but endangered venues where a guy named Jimmy McCartney is "spinning the top 40 for ya, all night, and giving away tickets to next month's big Winter Ball with the Gin Blossoms and 50-cent!" At least 5 times during that 6 hour drive we came across what would later be referred to as our theme song for that trip, "Hoes in different Area-codes," a rap anthem of sorts that in 1999 was on the tongues of just about every white-person age 13-21 from Atlanta, Georgia to Augusta, Maine. Each time it came on, in a sort of ironic homage to the absurdity of the lyrics, my friend and I belted out the chorus line, verbatim, "I've got hoes in different area codes...area codes (x4)" followed by the two of us doing our best to imitate the rest of the lyrics--shouting out random three digit area codes, that sorta-kinda rhymed. It's not a stretch of the imagination to suggest that teeny-boppers and frat boys everywhere were doing this same exact thing all winter that year (to differing extents of irony, to be sure.)

The point is, it never seemed inappropriate or odd for two twenty-something white boys to be singing along to a song which is accompanied by a video of predominantly African-American women shaking their rumps and being ostensibly referred to as hoes (and ones that could easily be cast aside at any moment for hoes in a different locale, disposable if you will.) The reasons for this are many, but the most important factor, I think, is that we were fully aware of the absurdity inherent in what we were doing. We could not only laugh at the posturing of the songs author (my Jersey City neighbor, Ludacris) but also at the effect of two kids who clearly didn't have "hoes" in any area code gleefully mocking the lyrics of the song. It was more a comment on the lack of intelligence of those who would create such songs, and those who would vault it to the top of the charts, than it was a deprivation of the song's targets. Indeed, we were singing satire. That's a double-edged sword of course: when Dave Chapelle plays a blind KKK member, he runs the risk of people "not getting it" or else getting it all too well, sensitivity trumping humor; when whiteboys refer to one another as "my nigga" it sure gives a hell of alot more pause then when two black men do the same thing; when Don Imus mocks the (inexplicably widely accepted) vernacular of hip-hop culture, he runs the risk of people "not getting it" or else getting it all too well. I can't say why in certain circumstances sensitivity trumps humor, but it often and somewhat randomly does.

This doesn't excuse the deplorable nature of Imus' comments. The "botched joke" excuse can work as a defense, when the Bush administration tries to twist one of it's foes comments about the War in Iraq into a criticism of our troops' intelligence. It doesn't fly when an old white man refers to young black women as nappy-headed hoes, calling to recollection a history of old white men abusing black women, profiting off of black labor, and institutionalizing the social divide of white male supremacy. Botched joke or not, that history just isn't funny. But just as shameful as what Imus said, is the trend that's emerging in which one person's folly becomes an excuse for society to reflect its weaknesses out on individuals, and think we can merely sacrifice that individual and the issue will go away. Let's be clear: what Imus said was stupid. But let's also be clear about this: what nobody wants to discuss is that what Imus said was clearly (for those of us who have bothered to listen to the entire exchange) meant to be a tongue-in-cheek mockery of a culture that (to varying degrees of disgust or apathy) "the kids" are worshipping, these days. Don Imus didn't refer to the RU players as "nappy-headed hoes" to call to our minds the tradition of white males sexually exploiting black women. He made the remark to call to mind the equally disturbing (but far less ridiculed) tradition of multi-millionaire "thugs" in baggy jeans. Here's where Imus made two mistakes, and where expressing a sentiment that (like it or not) he has expressed for decades on his show, got him into inescapable hot water: first, he didn't say something foolish and ignorant, but blame-absolving like "these girls are, as Fitty Cent would say, 'Nappy-Headed hoes,'" this still would have made the joke, and also made his intent clear for the mouth-breathing public who typically hears the replay of things like this in spliced audio-cuts, with predetermined reactions; secondly, he made the remark about athletes, and nobody loves to make societal mountains out of molehills the way the sports media does.

This leads directly to my two biggest concerns about this situation: first, the double standard that nobody wants to address, whereby our ipods are happily filled with rap lyrics expressing the very sentiment that Imus was trying to satire. Listening to Stuart Scot trying to excuse this double-standard was a total riot. Secondly, and I really wish I didn't have to say this, Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton's role in all of this has been really dispicable. I always used to think of these two guys as intriguing individuals and strong leaders at best; and mildly amusing side-needlers at worst. I can't help but be bothered by their hypocrisy in all of this, though. They have been the spokesmen for demanding Imus' head. They have taken to the streets in protest, and to the talkshow circuit in defiance of an obviously inexcusable folly. They have made the sacrifice of Imus' career the news item dujour. And they have done it so that the other news item du jour (their last cause celebre, the appalling false accusation of the Duke lax players) has fallen by the wayside. Why is it a fireable offense--according to Jackson and Sharpton--for Imus to disparage these women (something they will certainly get over in their lifetimes, and something which, I regret to say, will likely not be the worst they encounter) but nobody is calling for Shaprton and Jackson to at least publicly apologize for their role in villifying and arguably ruining the lives of three innocent young men. (By the way, not that it matters much, but I was dead wrong about the Duke Lax case. I admit that 100%) But this all relates to the real issue here: the way we jump on stories and draw conclusions and demand a sacrifice when none of us want to talk about the real larger issues. Firing Don Imus doesn't change the racial tension in this country, it doesn't undo the double standards, and it certainly doesn't lead to dialogue. But dialogue is less and less the point. It's about finding our pulpit and yelling from it. It's about demanding people pay for their mistakes, and their prejudices. It's about being "right" on the issues. It's less and less about looking at people, and wondering, how the hell does all of this work again?

Poo-Tee-Weet

Cause here's the thing: there was a time when the social critics of the day wanted to look at the big picture, examine why we, as a humanity behave and interact the way we do. Nobody did that better than writer, social critic, crumudgeon and keynote-speaker at my graduation Kurt Vonnegut. Vonnegut died Wednesday, and as some of my friends joked, we were shocked it didn't happen right on the stage at graduation. He fought through the twenty minute speech, though at times it seemed he might not make it. I wonder, if Vonnegut wasn't busy fighting for his life, if he would have been interested in the Imus scandal, or if he would have shrugged it off as another example of people making satire: that is putting on the farce of being socially progressive, all while treading in a wading pool, afraid to jump into the big, scary ocean. Vonnegut, like yours truly, was a liberal, the kind who was proud to wear that label, but wasn't blind to the faults manifest therein: Liberals do some dumb things. We often mean better for the world than conservatives, but we oftener have a hard time seeing the forest for the trees. We want to rage against people who say dumb things, or who advocate pushing their agendas and beliefs upon us, but we really do value our freedom of speech, our right as citizens to believe in what we want to believe (and of course, to try to make you believe it too.) We also are a guilt-ridden people. We are sensitive to history, we are embarassed by the way this nation was founded, and continues to expand into the world at-large, and make its name in the books of history. But we aren't looking to take any of the blame for that, of course.

I like to think Vonnegut would have ignored the hoopla and seen it for what it has become: a manifestation of one of society's major weaknesses in a caricature of one man. Imus, like Mel Gibson, and Michael Richards before him, has come to symbolize a particularly nasty truth about American society: racial tension. It's something we are petrified of actually discussing, and so we project it onto characters everyonce in a while, and beat them to a pulp. We tell ourselves this is progress. Vonnegut once wrote: “If I’d wasted my time creating characters, I would never have gotten around to calling attention to things that really matter.” Indeed, the media, liberals, Americans have spent an awful lot of time lately focusing on a few "evil" characters. It's simpler than calling attention to things that really matter.

I didn't ever consider Vonnegut my favorite writer. I don't have one really, but he would certainly be in the mix, most likely falling short to Joyce, Faulkner and some others. He didn't write my all-time favorite book. Moby Dick is in a league of its own, but Slaughter-House Five is battling it out with Ulysses, Book of Daniel, If on a Winter's Night a Traveller... and some others for the high AAA's. But one thing will always keep Vonnegut in a special place in my memory: he was the first author who really made me want to write. After completing SH5 in 9th grade I sat down to begin a novel that was a complete rip-off of Vonnegut's work. I never finished it. Ever since then I have been not finishing novels which are complete rip-offs of other authors' work. We're predictable, us humans.

And so, three years after he told my graduating class that if we "really wanted to piss off (our) parents but didnt have the guts to tell them (we) were gay, (we) could always take up art," Vonnegut died. I bet thousands of kids began writing because of him. And now he's dead, and some of us are still writing but never finishing. So it goes.

The Golden Rule

I found out two weeks ago I have been accepted (again) into the NYC Teaching Fellows. I am going to go for it this time. There are some major implications to this that I will hash out at some point. It's not going to be easy, and I am certain that I will question everything from my decision to my motives to my desire to continue breathing on a pretty much daily basis for the next two years. Teaching in an inner-city school as I am learning via my brother is a total mind-blow, and trying to complete a MEd at the same time is only going to be more difficult. For now, it means two years of grad school, subsidized, two years of frustrating but hopefully occasionally fulfilling moments with my students, and an opportunity to do something on a daily basis that benefits someone other than myself. It will be a challenge. But I need a challenge. It's been a long time since I have faced one of any real consequence. Furthermore, I really think I was born to teach (seeing as basically everyone I am related to is an eduator) and you know, I just love everything about Literature and academics, with one caveat: I think sometimes the people who need literature and academics (young kids) don't get the advantage of seeing that those two things can actually be cool and fun. I'm not going to save the world. I am not going to be a part of some great movement whereby 5 years from now urban students will have the same opportunity as suburban kids. But I'll be damned if I have the opportunity to work with kids and possibly change the way one or two of them look at reading a book, and I pass it up because I would rather come to a job where I sit in a cube and babble on my blog all day long. Kinda hard to argue that people are having trouble seeing the forest for the trees, when I haven't gotten down of this branch in three years or so. Maybe I will still be teaching in the year 2081, when everyone is finally equal.

KV Nov. 11, 1922-Apr. 11, 2007
Don Imus, Al Sharpton, Stuart Scott still livin'. So it goes.

If You Do it in Numbers They Can't Stop All of You

2007-03-23T06:47:00.000-07:00

Decemberists @ Loew's Theatre, Journal Sqaure, JC, NJ

I think we've established on here quite a few times that I am a bit selfish. It's not that I am self-absorbed to the point that I am inconsiderate of others, or self-centered to the point that I think everything should always be about me. It's just that I know what I like/enjoy and what I think is worthy of my time, and everything else can pretty much be damned. That said, it's very possible that the following opinions are held by me and me, only. It's possible that the way I am feeling this morning--after seeing the Decemberists (one of MY favorite bands) at Loew's Theatre (in MY hometown of Jersey City) with MY wife and MY friends--is a feeling only I could have. It's quite possible many left last night's show unimpressed (I'm not sure how) or at least feeling melancholy about what they'd just seen. That's fine. They are probably people I wouldn't care to associate with anyway. So here's the requisite "blog disclaimer": this review of last night's show reflects my biased and uninformed opinion. I don't have a Pitchfork degree in what makes an awesome show. Secondly, I am going to butcher this setlist, so if someone who is in the know stumbles across this here blog and has a more correct version, feel free to post. Alas:

I'm not sure what the fascination is among music writers, fans, and DJs to try to annoint the Next Bob Dylan. Within the last year alone I have heard references to the following musicians as "the next Dylan": Connor Oberst, a bit premature, it seemed; Ben Gibbard, this DJ having presumably been on Ludes; M Ward, which I can "kinda" see; Mason Jennings, enjoyable enough, but...please. Surprisingly enough Colin Meloy's name has never come up that I have heard, which leads me to one question and one exclamation: "Wherefor?" and "Thank god!" Don't get me wrong. I love Dylan and if we insist on crowning a "next (blank)" for every great artist of our idyllic sentiments, then Meloy's as good a victim as any. He covers the basics: he's more of a troubador/poet than any of those other candidates; he's political without beating you over the head with it; he's a jewish kid from Minnesota...err, scrap that. But you get the point. Still, who wants Colin Meloy to be our generation's Bob Dylan when he can be our generation's Colin friggin' Meloy?! Plus, for as much as I loved the Band, they were merely a backup (albeit an excellent one) to Dylan for a short few years. Meloy's the front man, sure, but this is a well-rounded band. Point blank (and without a shred of hyperbole) the Decemberists are the best live band I have EVER seen. Chris Funk is a master of every stringed instrument one can imagine, including a "Herty-Gurty" whatever that is. Jenny Conlee is queen of anything with keys from accordion to keyboard to organ. Nate Query more than holds his own on bass (standup and elec.) plus he looks like he stepped straight out of a J Crew Catalog. Homeboy was dapper and quite the looker. John Moen, drummer, may look like he should be teaching Ethics at some stodgy college (Middlebury, perhaps) but he too can rock, and had quite a sense of humor (in that corny old-guy kinda way.) So, anyway, the band is friggin' good. Like the best of this generation good. I don't need to convince you. Either you agree or you don't. On to the show!

We admittedly missed the opening act, somewhat due to schedule, and somewhat by choice (we could have rushed and caught most of it, or had a beer and some pizza in my living room.) Obviously, we chose the latter. So we walked in, literally RIGHT as the bassline for "The Island/Come & See/You'll Not Feel the Drowning" began to drench the audience in a beautiful (in need of some loving care) old theatre. Finding our seats (second row!) we settled in. It was a bit odd to sit at a show (the organizers at the Loew's strictly enforce this policy, which kinda stinks but actually worked for the "theatrical elements" of the set.) Following a nearly flawless (music-wise) performance of that long opener, which really showed off the theatre's acoustics, Colin made a little banter with the audience. Why don't more bands do this? I have heard the bitching about "I come to see music, not to hear them crack cheezy jokes or shout 'Hello Jersey City!' or whatever." I wholeheartedly disagree. If the music is all you care about stay at home with the album. The playfulness between bandmembers and between band and audience is what makes it FUN!

After referring to Jersey City as the real NJ and Hoboken (where they'd previously played at Maxwells) as, well, Hoboken, they broke into "Yankee Bayonet" with the Shara from My Brightest Diamond (opener) singing Laura Viers' part serviceably. It's not my favorite song, but it played well. I didnt have a pen so the middle of the set is murky in terms of order, but I particularly recall "Crane Wife 1&2" (excellent) "We Both Go Down together" (one of my favs) and Summersong (beautiful.) Giving us a glimmer into what inspired the Crane Wife, and what seemingly inspired the set, itself, Colin introduced "We Both Go Down Together," by saying, "And here's another song about senseless violence." On a more playful note, after referencing our beloved PATH train they blasted through "The Perfect Crime No. 2" (danceable even prone in a chair) "O! Valencia" (a real crowd pleaser) then told, what Colin called, "a story to take home and put under your pillows and give you really weird dreams" ("Shankill Butchers.") Colin wasn't the only one in a playful mood, introducing "Military Wives" (another personal fave) Jenny teased, "here comes the rock!" It was in fact enough rock to "rock (colin's) shoelaces untied" for the second time of the night.

You know when you are absolutely LOVING a show, and at a certain point you get that "shit man, this has to end kind of soon" feeling? Well, that followed "Military Wives," for me especially since Colin extended the song a good 3-4 minutes to engage the audience in sing alongs for the "La de da de da" part (see, audience participation: dorky, sure, but friggin' fun! As, too, were the handclaps.) Fortunately, my fears were a bit premature. After that we were treated to (I think it was after)Grace Cathedral Hill (beautiful and slow) and The Infanta (effin' rocked to the point where I was very tempted to break that "no dance" rule.) For the last song of the set they pulled out oldie but goodie "Mariner's Revenge Song" and inspired some massive audience participation, calling for us to scream at the top of our lungs as the heroes in the song are swallowed once again by a whale. The audience screamed loudly like kids on a playground while a huge puppet whale (think Chinese New Year gone wrong) circled the stage, and the band belted out their last notes. Perfect ending for the set.

As the crowd fiended for an encore I turned to my wife, literally wiping sweat from my brow (remember, we were sitting) and sighed, "The absolute only thing that could make this show any better than it was, is if they had played "Eli the Barrow Boy" or if they Encore with "Sons and Daughters." So what do they do? March back on and play "Eli the Barrow Boy" AND "Sons and Daughters." As the first notes of "Sons and Daughters" fell behind Meloy's voice, "When we arrive..." I had that spine-chilling feeling of bliss that concerts RARELY give me anymore. I didn't think it was possible to feel any better until, leading up to the final chorus line, Meloy urged the audience, "This next line really doesnt work unless all of us sing it, and if you take one thing home from this show, it should be this next line, and you should take it with you on the PATH, or in the car ride home, it goes 'Hear all the bombs fade away!'" And reminiscent of my family singing along to Alice's Restaurant each thanksgiving at Arlo Guthrie's urging ("you people think you're gonna end a war singing that soft?") the chant started quietly, the audience unsure of itself, growing momentum at Meloy and the bandmember's urgency, until blowing up into a standing chant, people clapping along, the entire audience on our feet (damn the rules) screaming, "Hear all the bombs fade away! Hear all the bombs fade away!" for a solid 90 seconds. Look, man, I don't know if music can change the world. But for those 90 seconds--maybe even for that entire show--it sure felt like it could. Dylan at his best always made me believe he was changing music. But this was a different feeling, entirely.

Did I have any complaints? Sure: while I am a fan of audience participation when it is encouraged, I really don't need to know that should Colin Meloy ever come down with strep, dude behind me can easily take over as front man because he knows every friggin' lyric to every friggin' song, and wanted everyone else to know that he knew them. Look man, I love the band too. I holler along to Engine Driver when I am alone in traffic. I dont do it when I am in the audience and the guy who sings the song for a living is three rows in front of me. Also I missed the first half of the UCLA game. Not that it mattered, those jerks at CBS had me programmed to watch OSU/Tennessee anyway. Oh well, guess I can't nitpick too much. I'm not that selfish.

Because Royal Blue and Yellow Just Look Nice

2007-03-14T08:09:00.000-07:00

...I admit it, that's the reason I became a UCLA basketball fan way back in the day. It's inexcusable, it's the reason every sports columnists imaginary "wife or girlfriend" pick's their bracket winners, and it belies the general front-runner fair-weather-fan nature of the pick. But when I bought an Ed O'Bannon jersey during spring break of my 12th year, and sat glued to a TV in Florida with awe as one of the most exciting sports team I have ever seen picked apart an overmatched and worn-down Razorbacks press, I fell in love with a basketball team for the first, and honestly, only time. I root for UCLA now, sure. I get bummed when they lose, I love when they win. I hate Steve Lavin with a passion, I hold a special place in my heart for Jim Harrick. When I see replays of the Princeton 43 UCLA 41 game in 1996, I still change the channel. I was in a bad mood for a good two days after the Bruins followed up their most exciting victory in 10 years (defeating Gonzaga in a nail-biter that made Adam Morrison an infamous cry-baby) by throwing out a typical lackluster, "do we really have to play again?" performance in the Championship game against the Gators last year.

That's been the thing about the Bruins, though. They don't really lose heart-breaking games, and under Ben Howland, they don't really win convincing ones, either. They are a deliberate, defensive team that goes on spurts without much pizzaz. They're either getting trounced by a team that shouldn't be waxing the court on which the Bruins play; or they are inexplicably making very, very good teams look very, very shoddy. They win 68-60, and their style of play is--frankly--quite boring. I'll root like hell for 'em, sure. And if they win it all, perhaps in ten years I will blog about them as one of the most exciting teams I've ever seen. But that's what the tournament does. The fast-paced, win-and-in, buzzer beaters, tearful losers, upset special style makes legends out of otherwise flawed teams. It's the nature of the beast, whoever wins it all becomes immortalized as being perfect: because that's what it takes, despite all your ugly regular season moments, and all of your shortcomings, if you can be perfect for 5 games, you make history, and no matter what you do for the rest of your life, certain people will sing your name like a beautiful hymn each time they recall you slashing to the basket one March many years prior. Just ask Ed O'Bannon. The Brackets:

Midwest Round 1:

Fla. d. Jackson St.
Heard a nice interview with the coah of Jackson State on NPR this morning. I'll feel bad for him when they lose by thirty.

Arizona d. Purdue
Good chicken. Mediocre basketball. Lute can pull out a win or two in this bracket.

ODU d. Butler
I know very little about either of these teams, but ODU just sounds like a 12 seed that upsets a 5 seed...and maybe even a 4 seed.

Maryland d. Davidson
DJ Strawberry wins em one game. Daryls wrists are finally unshackled enough to applaud.

Oregon d. Miami(not Florida)
Oregon may arguably be the most overlooked team (not underrated, just overlooked.)

UNLV d. Ga. Tech
I smell a fix. I think I may be the only person picking the Rebs

Wisconson d. TAMCC
I wonder how many people thought A&M just got a really, really poor seed, and picked Wisconsin to lose this one?

West Round 1:

Kansas d. Niagra

Kentucky d. Nova
Nova is the first of the overrated Big East teams to drop.

Virginia Tech d. Illinois
How did the Illini get in over Drexel again?!

So. Ill. d. Holy Cross
As much as I'd love to pick the Patriot League and go with the underdog here, So. Ill. is one of those unheard of teams that is actually damn good. They have dominant guard play, and suffocating defense. The poor man's UCLA.

Duke d. VCU
Two things: it pains me to pick Duke; and this is a particularly weak Duke team. Two other things: Duke at their best are better than VCU at their best no matter what way you slice it; If EVERYBODY is picking an upset, and you dont think either team is going far in the tourney, it always makes sense to stay safe in a bracket challenge.

Wright St. d. Pittsburgh
Second overrated Big East Team to fall.

Indiana d. Gonzaga
This was a coin-flip. Neither team is very good, and neither team is winning the next game. I went with the team I have seen more of.

UCLA d. Weber State
Weber State scores fewer than 50 in this match-up.

East Round 1:

UNC d. EKY
Eastern Kentucky keeps it close and possibly has a lead at the half. People in offices around the country are glued to ESPN.com for the first 5 minutes of the second half. UNC blows them out in the end by 15 or so.

Mich St. d. Marquette
Third overrated Big East team to fall.

USC d. Arkansas
Drexel fans watch with an emotional mix of glee, lament, and disgust. Syracuse fans do the same, although they dont deserve it.

Texas d. NMSU
Kevin Durant has 22 points, 11 boards and eighteen bajillion blocked shots.

GWU d. Vanderbilt
A vastly underrated GWU team...just kidding. I have no idea. I just dont see Vanderbilt winning an NCAA tournament game.

Wash. State d. Oral Roberts
(Insert joke about Oral here) Washington State has three viable scorers, and plays an excellent midcourt trap. They play the kind of basketball that has become very popular in the pac10 of late--namely, deliberate, and chess-like in pace.

Texas Tech d. BC
Bobby Knight is my favorite villain.

Georgetown d. Belmont
Somewhere a relative of JRFN wallows in pain...or actually...goes skiing and probably couldn't fuckin' care less.

South Round 1:

OSU d. Central Conn

Xavier d. BYU
BYU coach is consoled by his seven wives.

Long Beach St. d. Tenn.
This isn't your grandfathers LBS. But it's a good enough team to beat Tennessee.

UVA d. Albany
Could be your big brothers UVA.

Louisville d. Stanford
It pained me to do this. But Louisville is the better team.

Texas A&M d. Penn
I'm trying to think of a reason A&M doesn't win this bracket. Scorers, Good guard play, leadership, good rebounders, not bad from the line. I'm really trying...

Nevada d. Creighton
Nevada's caoch avoids any conflicts with the police for the first round.

Memphis d. No. Tex.
Memphis is quite good. Quite.

Midwest Rd. 2:

Fla. d. Zona
This will be a mop-up.

ODU d. Maryland
Let the George Mason comparisons begin

Oregon d. Winthrop

Wis. d. UNLV
Enjoy it while it lasts, Badgers.

West Rd. 2

Kansas d. Kentucky
If only Kansas had a tougher road to the elite 8, I'd feel alot better about the Bruins chances.

So. Ill. d. Va. Tech

Duke d. Wright St.
..I know....I know.

UCLA d. Ind.
In a slow and boring 68-60 type game.

East Rd. 2

UNC d. MSU

Texas d. USC

WSU d. GW

Georgetown d. Texas Tech
Aside from Texas this bracket bores me.

South Rd. 2

Ohio St. d. Xavier
Possibly the easiest road to the Sweet 16 in the tourney (guess they are a 1 seed.)

UVA d. Long Beach

Texas A&M d. Louisville
Experience over youth.

Memphis d. Nevada

MY Super Sweet 16

Florida d. ODU
Joakim Noah does what I hope is his last stupid post-victory dance of the season. It probably won't be.

Oregon d. Wisconsin
This could go either way, but should it happen, this will be a phenomenally fun game to watch next weekend.

Kansas d. So. Ill.
Crap, I hate KU.

UCLA d. Duke
Ok, maybe I set it up so UCLA can slay my biggest nemeses back to back in one weekend.

Texas d. UNC
In what will be a physical, barnburner of a game.

Gtown d. WSU
Georgetown has size, but I'm not sure they have much else. Surprisingly, I wasn't very confident in this pick.

OSU d. UVA
UVA doesn't have the front court to keep Oden out of the paint.

Texas A&M d. Memphis

Elite 8

Fla. d. Orgeon
Joakim Noah and his stupid dance advance. For now.

UCLA d. Kansas
About a potential Pitt-UCLA showdown in the previous round, our friend Jake writes: "I have a wierd preminition that this is going to be a late night game in the 70's that i'm going to be watching while drunk at a bar. Does it feel like that to you?" Since Pitt is losing early, I'll apply that statement here with Jakes compliance.

Texas d. GTown
Man alive, is Texas' road to the final four going to be a rough one.

A&M d. Ohio St.
Couldn't find a reason not to advance them.

Final Four

UCLA d. Florida
Avenge last years loss, make Joakim cry. These are two of the things this years team must do to park themselves in my Sports Pantheon with th 2004 Sox, the '94 Bruins, Oil Can Boyd, and Curtis Martin. Oil's in there for personal reasons. Back off.

Texas A&M d. Texas
Or the other way around. Either way a team from Texas wins. And then loses to UCLA in the Championship game.

Hey, what can I say? I told you I was a fan, didn't I?

A Letter to "Deej"

2007-02-28T16:00:00.000-08:00

To "Deej," One of the greasy-haired, emebellished-accent, baggy-sweatpantsed, foul-mouthed, meatheads who felt the need to mock me on my run today-

Deej, buddy. Sorry to adress this letter to you, alone. It is, after all, meant for all three of you gentlement whose sheltered little corner of Jersey City I happened to interrupt as I passed the campus of St. Peter's College on my run today. It just so happens that yours was the only name I caught as you and your "bros" cajoled eachother whilst dropping racial epithets and homophobic slurs while mocking me for my running attire, my shamefulness in daring to exercise. Most of your conversation sounded as if it was being spoken with marbles in your mouths, but I am pretty sure I caught a few "N-bombs" (despite all of your painfully apparent whiteness) at least three "fags" and of course, you pointing at my underarmour shirt, and mocking the fact that I was trying to keep tempo while stuck at a red light. Look, man, I appreciate the fact that you came to Jersey City hoping to urbanize your otherwise insignificant and boring suburban Maplewood existence. I can empathize. But some of us move to urban areas to avoid ignorant cliche sons of bitches like you. We embrace the diversity, and respect the fact that on any given time, we might be standing next to someone who would dare to be black, or gay, or GOD FORBID, a person who exercises. I understand this may not be your thing (it's pretty obvious, even with those baggy pants that you haven't hit the treadmill since high school gym class.) I respect the fact that it's tough for you and your bros to "score with the bitches" in Uggs and Juicy Couture at parties on Friday nights when you don't have that prototypical chubby-faced, cap-popped-sideways, absurd bling-rocking swagger. It's an identity (just like every other suburban white kid who attends your college, and aims to look hip.) But here's a tip. Chicks might dig it if you actually stopped dicking around with your friends playing PS3 and got off your ass and shed the baby fat. Seriously, bro, put down the Whopper.

Back to tonight, though. I'm awfully sorry shit had to get confrontational. It's just I take it personally when people mock me for minding my own business. And I take particular offense, too, when people are inconsiderate to others for no fucking reason what-so-ever. People were rolling their eyes at you, Dee, I was embarassed for you. So I know it wasn't clever of me to tell you to "get a fucking life." I wish I had it in me to come up with something a little more witty, but, alas, as I mentioned, I was in the middle of a six mile run. I was tired. Your response however, to "eat shit, faggot," was not only unclever, it was down right comical (in a way that you hadn't intended it to be...even if your friends were all giggly.) See I actually eat pretty round meals (maybe a little more carbs than your average Joe, but mostly because I need them to run, y'know, exercise, without breaking down.) Furthermore, that finger that I flashed in your direction? Right next to it was a wedding ring. I probably shouldn't get in to the tendency for men with latent gay tendencies to repress their emotions for so long that they eventually become the most agressive type of homophobe their is: the self-loathing gay. I'm sure you know about all that already.

So, Deej, my main bro, my advice to you is to get your shit together. Fortunately for you, your childish antics only caused a small uncomfortable run-in this time around. Next time you might be dropping the n-bomb or a homophobic slur around the wrong crowd. After all, we aren't in Maplewood anymore. Also, word to the wise: the whole baggy pants thing is done. Both the white people you inexplicably mock, and the black culture icons whom you desperately try to emulate have realized that pants that actually fit are not only more common-sensical, they are also more comfortable, and fashionable. Be careful out there, Deej. I know the corridors of the St. Peter's Dorms can be a tough place. But just think about this next time you are out and about with your bros: people like you are the reason people "from away" give NJ such a bad rap. They think we are all macho-meathead-assclowns like you, even if most of us are far from it. In fact, I'd venture a guess that outside of your two lackeys, everybody you came into contact with today really wishes you would move to Texas or Mississippi, where crap like that is tolerated.

What I'm Going to Do Without Ya, Girl?

2007-02-12T19:19:00.000-08:00

No more Red Sox. Here's what I'll be doing with my spring and summer. For those of you who read this blog for the sports, that will be the site that's going to interest you most for the next few months. For those who like to listen to my brainfarts about other random stuff, keep coming back here. If you are just addicted, and can't get enough of me, you can visit both. I permit thee.

Reviewing Books I've Never Read

2007-02-08T07:10:00.000-08:00

Last night I attended the monthly Varsity Letters reading series at a bar/club in Chinatown called Happy Ending Lounge. I found the event at once tremendously full of potential, and slightly disappointing. It's one of the great things about living in a major metropolitan area that any time someone has a good idea, they can almost always find the ingredients necessary to bring that idea to fruition, and always find a constituency that will be equally as excited about this idea. In this case, Carl Bialik (a writer at Gelf Magazine) has found the place (oddly enough, a club in Chinatown) the writers and the audience necessary to put together a monthly reading by Sports Writers. The set-up is less than ideal: it is a dark club where one expects to find dancing metrosexual males leering at under-dressed oversexualized young females, and perhaps the occasional slam-poetry reading in the dark lounge (so dark, in fact, one of the readers had trouble seeing his own book.) Alas, it is difficult to complain about atmosphere. Where else can you find a group of intellectual sports fans gathering to hear readings by well-know writers in an intimate setting where they are free to interact with the authors, both during a question and answer period and on a more personal basis, while milling around the lounge? Outside of a large city, the answer is "nowhere else." In a large city, if the answer has to be the inside of a dimly-lit lounge, then so be it. The three readers last night were: Jack Cavanaugh, an older journalist type with credentials coming out of his rumpled suit pockets, reading from his new book about the life of Jack Tunney; Katie Hnida, author of a memoir detailing her experiences as the first Div. I female football player; and S.L. Price, who writes for SI (including this year's Sportsman of the year article about D. Wade) and has written a book about Cuban baseball called Pitching Around Fidel. As you can guess, I attended the reading to see the last author. All three of them were intriguing for various reasons, though, so we'll break them down one-by-one followed by a "would I buy this book?" segment.

Jack Cavanaugh

I can't say enough about Cavanaugh's resume. The man is a professional journalist, through and through: NY Times, SI, Reader's Digest, Golf Mag., etc... He is an old-school sports writer, a species, which--for better or worse--is becoming extinct in today's internet-based world. He is a man of research, investigative hands on reporting, who personally invests himself in his subjects and it shows: he knows of which he speaks. He spoke about Jack Tunney as knowlegeably as you'd expect from a man who researched and wrote a 300-page tome on the little known boxer who defeated Jack Dempsey in the 20's. He is, without a doubt, an expert on the subject. What he is not is much of a public speaker. This happens all the time with writers. I for one can write my thoughts about 100 times more clearly than I could ever speak them because I can draw the connections without wandering (too far) afield, whereas, when speaking I tend to forget the subject from whence I deviated. Cavanaugh had this same affliction but to a severe degree (even when reading his own work he constantly interjected random thoughts, and even complete stories, into the middle of his reading. In a cute, grandfatherly way, he was laughable in his innocence (he said things like, "I can't tell you what happens at the end of the book because my publicist says I need to tease the audience so they will buy it!") And though his reading was a bit slipshod (thanks to his personality, and to some extent the poor lighting) he did the best job of the three in really explaining and illuminating the subject of his book. He discussed Tunney as a unique persona (for an athlete)who liked to read Shakespeare, and married an heiress, despite his modest Brooklyn upbringing. He made you want to get to know more about a topic that, without reading the book, you could not appreciate; and he made you feel that without doing so, you'd be missing out on something significant.

Would you buy this book? Absolutely. If it wasn't hardcover I would have bought it on site. This was a classic case of a reading where you have no interest in the topic before the author speaks about it, yet you come out of it wondering how you'd never heard about, or read about this before.

SL Price

As I mentioned, Price was the reason I attended the event. As far as speaking goes, he was the best among the three, by far. He knew his audience, and he catered his speech to that audience. He discussed the importance of a good subject, but more importantly a great "Get," the storyline that makes a story sell (our next author seems to have heeded this advice.) He talked about D. Wade, and his relationship with his mother, an alcoholic, drug-abusing criminal, who has now cleaned up and is the proud mother of the sportsman of the year (the kind of human interest story SI does better than most.) What Price didn't talk enough about, for my money, was what I went there to see: he didn't discuss much the methods he used in researching his stories (particularly the story of Pitching Around Fidel, his book about Cuban Baseball.) In fact, he hardly mentioned the Cuban baseball book, other than to mention he had tried to avoid the political undertones of the story, which seemed unfortunate to me, as I think those undertones are the heart of that particular story. I enjoyed his speech, I only wish he had been more aggressive in pitching his book, instead of his trade.

Would you buy the book? Yes, but not because of the reading. Simply because it is a topic that interests me. I don't think Price did much to attract any new readers last night. One of the highlights though was blogger Captain Caveman of With Leather asking the Sports Illustrated writer how he feels about the down-fall of Time, and the magazine industry as a whole, in the shadow of the internet age.

Katie Hnida

I'm not going to make any friends with the Dave Zirin's of the world with this one, I fear. I've tried my damnedest to argue my point with friends and no matter how logical my conclusions, no matter how relevant my points, I always come down on the side of this issue that makes me a bad person, a sexist, or a cynic. Because, here's the thing, I don't know that I trust Hnida. That doesn't mean I think Hnida is a false accuser, it just means that despite my desire to believe her, and despite my liberal politics, even despite my tendency to always fall for the victim of an alleged crime; no matter how hard I try, I keep coming to the same conclusion about the Katie Hnida story--something just doesn't seem right. Unfortunately, Katie's reading only reaffirmed by doubts. In my defense, and because I am terribly sensitive to the fact that my opinion is an unpopular one, I want to reitirate that in my heart I want to believe Hnida. I want to believe we live in a world where nobody would embellish or flasify such a private violation as rape. We don't. I defended the victim of the Duke Rape case, even as the prosecutions case fell apart. I still believe something more than stripping happened in that house, and the woman was a victim of some sort of harassment (Hnida, for her part, has called the Duke incident "frustrating," adding that, "any false accusations that are out there make it harder for those of us who have been raped or attacked to press charges."

The Hnida rape case perplexes me for a number of reasons, not the least of which is my constant battle with the moral question of how fair it is to doubt someone in a situation like this. But to see Hnida reading last night was to realize that the sanctity of the situation has been unloosed, at Hnida's own doing. Stating her fear of having her sexual and personal history dragged through the mud, as the reason she has avoided pressing charges and naming the man she accuses of raping her, Hnida has, nevertheless been willing to make herself a public figure in the name of selling her story. She says one of the biggest reasons for writing the book is "for me to spread to other victims to not just keep quiet. So many women don't say anything to anyone. They just hold it inside by themselves." And yet, ostensibly, Hnida is still keeping quiet, isn't she? She has still not named her rapist, thereby implicating an entire team as the possible rapist, and she has still not sought justice for the man she claims sent her into a spiraling depression, and ended her career at Colorado.

The unfortunate thing for Hnida is, she did not speak up immediately after she was raped, but rather waited until other females had come forward claiming rape by the CU football team. Hnida's detractors, perhaps unfairly, wonder how seriously a claim can be taken when it is only brought forward after other accusations (the proverbial kicking of a dog that's already down.) It didn't help that Katie's accusations against a team atmosphere of sexual derision, fostered by Coach Gary Barnett came a few years after a meeting in which Barnett told Hnida she would not be making the team her sophomore year (she then transferred to University of New Mexico.) Which brings us to last night's reading, in which a question about Barnett brought visible anger to Hnida's face. It was the kind of reaction you'd expect when discussing Hnida's rapist. Nobody had the audacity to ask Hnida about that, however.

What got Gary Barnett into so much trouble at Colorado, and what became "the last straw" in his tenure there, was a quote in which Barnett said "Not only was Katie a girl, she was a terrible kicker." (in the context of the press conference, this seems a less inflamatory, but still unnecessary, response.) Hnida claims this quote bothered her less than a supposed email Barnett wrote following her accusation in which he asked how aggresively to approach the subject of her sexual conquests. Katie sees this as Barnett responding to a rape allegation by trying to shoot the messenger. Some former co-workers disagree: "When the story about Katie came out, there were many offers from people who wanted to come forward to discredit her," said the source. "Gary didn’t let them do that, out of sensitivity to Katie’s situation." Katie claims this email from Barnett offended her far more than his "terrible kicker comment." So I hope it won't offend Katie, if I also add on that she is a terrible writer.

The title of Hnida's book (Still Kicking: My Dramatic Journey as the First Woman to Play College Football) speaks volumes about the way Hnida preceives herself. First of all "dramatic" is an understatement. Secondly, there is no doubt that Hnida (rightfully so, perhaps) sees herself as a pioneer well before she sees herself a victim. Hnida's reading was about 10-12 minutes long, a full reading of her prologue, and it breaks down (crudely) like this: 9-10 minutes of Katie describing her the first point a woman ever scored in D-I (her PAT attempt in a blow-out bowl game) followed by about 1-2 minutes of "as great as I felt then, I couldn't forget the struggles I had been through" type-stuff. Actual lines from the reading include "it was a bone chilling, shivering cold rain." and "I had so many layers on I looked like Frosty the Snowman." All of this was read slowly, in an affected tone, with dramatic pauses. She may have been reading Invisible man. The thing is, not many people care about that extra point, and nobody cares about it more than they care about the scandal of the rape allegations. Hnida has to know that, and it's hard to tell just how much it bothers her. It's hard to know if Hnida is aware that the story sells because it is a scandalous story about a sexy female, and that is the vehicle through which she was able to get the attention necesary to tell what she thinks is the truly important story of her life: that meaningless extra point. It's hard to imagine she isn't at least aware of that. The cover of her book features Hnida's perfect smile, gorgeous eyes and long blond hair, framed over a still shot of her kicking a field goal (helmetless) with that long ponytail flying wild. She spoke last night in a black dress with high-heeled leather boots. Sex sells, even the tabboo variety. Just ask the gentlemen she playfully flirted with in the bathroom line, or Captain Caveman, who nearly fell out of his barstool trying to fumble through his pockets to give her his card.

During the question and answer session I didn't raise my hand, and I am glad I didn't. It would have taken at least as many words as I've written here to relate the complexity of how I feel about this situation (and maybe I still haven't done so.) But there is one question I wish I had asked, as she cozied into a corner table with four other women (friends, I suppose) and poured them all a bottle of bubbly (an odd choice, I thought, for someone who'd just finished talking about the nightmares she endured.) I wanted to ask her if it wouldn't set a better example for all of those rape victims for whom she says she wrote the book, if she were to stop being quiet and name, and perhaps bring to justice, the man who raped her. If, perhaps, it wouldn't be of more solace to her than any amount of money she might make off of this book? I didn't ask her, and I wish I had. But again, if I had done so, I would have been the one who came off bad. I left her to her champagne celebration.

Would I buy the book? The moral answer here is "no," right? Or is it "yes." Regardless. I don't think I will buy the book. But I am sure at some point I will take it out of the library or borrow it...or something.

(insert long winters music with montage of clips of brooding hipster dude and his fair skinned, waifish ex-girlfriend, here)

2007-02-07T13:48:00.001-08:00

Wow. Brooklyn: You have hit the big-time! They are making a Laguna-Beach Inspired MTV reality show about Brooklyn High schoolers. In the premier episode, Sophia (who wears oversized sweaters with leggings and ballet slippers in the winter-time) is stressing because her boyfriend Huck (named ironically because his parents thought it had an Americana twist to it) might be cheating with Sara (a hassidic Jew whose parents wish all these hipsters would leave them the fugg alone!!!!) I can't wait.

A myth is a process of telling stories. Most of which Ain't True

2007-02-02T08:01:00.000-08:00

In September of 1969, Eight men were placed on trial for violating the anti-riot act of 1968, a debatably unconstitutional law passed to prevent the gathering of protestors, specifically protests that were believed to be anti-war protests, in which the perpetrators crossed state lines with "the intent to riot." This phrase of course was left vague, so it could be applied in any circumstance which the law deemed applicable. I won't go too heavily into the history of the 1968 Democratic National Convention, or the protests led by the Yippies, MOBE, The Black Panthers, and the SCLC (you can find an excellent summary here.) But what took place in the trial that ensued for the eight defendents (Abbie Hoffman, David Dellinger, Jerry Rubin, Bobby Seale, Rennie Davis, Tom Hayden, John Froines and Lee Weiner) happens to be one of my favorite moments of American history. It certainly wasn't a shining moment in the Nation's brief past, but it is a moment which symbolized the pinnacle of the youth movement of the 1960's. It was part of the course of events that led to the diminished movement, sure, but it was also the moment where the absurdity of the old-guard American ways were most clearly illuminated. American hysteria, and self-seriousness was put on trial by the very defendants it had put on trial. The tables were turned by a smart collection of individuals who saw the fallacy of the American war in Vietnam, the hypocrisy of the Democratic party, and the inanity with which older Americans were placing their faith in the hands of abusive powers.

What we are seeing right now in Boston with the "LiteBrite" terrorists, reminds me, somewhat of what happened with the trial of the Chicago Eight, and so I thought I'd recall the circumstances of those trials, again. I understand, of course, the very different nature of these two conflicts. In his closing summation, Defense Attorney William Kunstler (the man for whom The Dude pines, upon his arrest in Malibu) had this to say about the trial of the Chicago Seven (Bobby Seale was removed from the trial after being ordered bound and gagged by the judge):

"We are living in extremely troubled times, as Mr. Weinglass pointed out. An intolerable war abroad has divided and dismayed us all. Racism at home and poverty at home are both causes of despair and discouragement. In a so-called affluent society, we have people starving, and people who can't even begin to approximate the decent life.
These are rough problems, terrible problems, and as has been said by everybody in this country, they are so enormous that they stagger the imagination. But they don't go away by destroying their critics. They don't vanish by sending men to jail. They never did and they never will."

The difference between that trial and the seemingly inevitable--if absurd--trial of the two Boston Artists who installed the LightBrites causing Bostonians to panic is, of course, the impetus. In 1968 the act was one of protest, brought on by outrage against an injust war, a woefully complacent and out-of-touch elder generation, and an abusive government. Today's matter is an act of "guerilla advertising" by two artists, brought on by the incentive of marketing for a multi-billion dollar corporation. The two are incomparable, of course. What makes the cases similar is the absurdity of the reaction by the aforementioned out-of-touch older generation, and a frightening abuse of power by an embarassed legal authority, desperate to find an enemy, even where one doesn't exist.

Indeed, what this whole charade is about is a few clueless individuals panicking in a time of fear, overreacting due to the instilled paranoia of the day, and an excessive response by the law enforcers, which lead, inevitably to their own embarassment. So what is the response? Naturally to find a scapegoat. And not just a scapegoat for the boneheadedness of one city's police department, but rather for the entire state of paranoia of America's oversensitive citizens. It was not enough for the Chief of Boston's Police Department to stop at the absurd half-truth of blaming the two artists for massive traffic delays and hundreds of thousands of wasted tax dollars (where is the blame for the overreactive response?) but he had to go a step further, ostensibly connecting the two artists to terrorists by admonishing their failure to take seriously a few hyper-alert individuals' paranoia: "Just a little over a mile away from the placement of the first device, a group of terrorists boarded airplanes and launched an attack on New York City." The idea, of course, is that the artists should be held accountable for not being predictive of other people's ignorance and paranoia. While the Chicago trial was about destroying the critics of a problem, this public trial is about destroying the innocent bystanders to a problem. The problem is right in front of our faces: the problem is a nation embellished with fear, and teetering so close to insanity with their paranoia that they could mistake a litebrite for a bomb. The problem is an excessive response by a police department, and government officials desperate to foil the next major terrorist disaster, and then too stubborn to admit they were wrong and excessive (I wonder where they get that trait from?) And the problem is that even now, as we see the humor in the absurdity of what happened in Boston, an out-of-touch generation of media-members continue to miss the real perpetrators of this folly: the people who overreacted in the first place. Instead they buy the company line that the installation artists should have forseen this, with lines like this: " It’s mind-boggling that a large corporation could be dumb enough not to realize that placing battery-operated objects in public places might be a bit problematic in the post-9/11 world." I wonder what the Boston Herald Columnist who wrote that would think about the Boombox Parade held in December just a few miles from Ground Zero! (By the way, for the most amusing overreaction to this drama, stay glued to Boston Herald, which, embarassed over their own excessive coverage of the 'bomb scare' has villified these two "criminals" more than anyone...read that article and wonder why people call Boston a racist town.)

The thing is, I am a fan of the absurd. Absurdity is as relevant to American history as is George Washington, baseball, and gunpowder. And what makes this debacle so interesting to me--like what makes the Chicago 7 so interesting--is the absurdity of it all, and the fact that the ones placed on trial by the absurd, try to illuminate the absurd, but--absurdly--are misunderstood as malicious. Some people really just don't get it: illustrated by the media saying time and time again that the "pranksters" were nonsensically babbling on about hair in their post-release press-conference...apparently, they don't feel like researching Cartoon Network much. The baby boomer generation, which invented guerilla theatre, seems to have forgotten it just as quickly. Describing the guerilla theatre that took place in Chicago at the trial, witness Phil Ochs put it this way: "theatrically dealing with what seemed to be an increasingly absurd world and trying to deal with it in ways other than just on a straight moral level." If the people, media, and law officials in Boston can't see the absurdity of all of this, it must be because they are too busy wiping their chins of the embarassment they caused themselves. Anyway, it sure seems history repeats itself, and there is no shortage of absuridity in the arch of American history. Now if you'll excuse me, my computer is blinking funnily. I think I need to call the police.

YouTube of the "terrorists" press conference here.

Transcript of the Chicago 7 Trail here. At least Read Abbie Hoffman's testimony.

Intentionally Walking Nap Lajoie ("You'll Freeze Ya' Man Parts Off" Edition)

2007-01-26T08:41:00.000-08:00

Ball One: Talkin' Baseball

Today's word is "short-sighted," my fellow baseball fans. "Short-sighted," as in: the steroids policy Major League Baseball put in place 8 years ago, the steroid policy Major League Baseball put into place 2 years ago, and even the steroid policy MLB put into place prior to last season; or the recent expansions, adding two teams in Florida, which are now desperately trying to escape Florida, and spending the least amount of money possible to do so, bringing down the level of competition; or the quick fix of making the All-Star game "meaningful" again by giving World Series homefield advantage to the winning league; or, worst of all, this. That's right folks: "short-sighted," as in MLB brokering a deal to make the extra-innings package available EXCLUSIVELY throught DirecTV, while actively seeking to limit the amount of households that can get exposure to their own product. All in the name of 30 million dollars a year, or 1 million dollars per team, per year, after revenue sharing does its thing. So what does a million dollars buy a Major League Baseball team? Try one of these. That's right, Rudy Seanez just signed a contract for a million dollars, meaning, his 1million ERA is more valuable to a baseball owner, than is his fans' ability to watch his team play out of market. Millions of households across America, of course, are incapable of being equipped with a satellite dish. Some don't have adequate Southern exposure, some can't afford the Dish, others (like me) have annoying condo associations or landlords, who simply won't allow it. Of course, they expect the die-hards who would have paid 170 to get the package, to simply get mlb.tv instead. And they probably will get 75% of them. So those who argue that this is a smart business move by MLB are correct. For now. But for how long? You see, like me, many fans became more involved in baseball because of the package. They saw stadiums on TV they wouldn't typically see, and they made trips to those stadiums, or they fell in love with a second team they wouldn't normally root for, and went out and bought some of their gear. I would have raised my kids to be Red Sox fans, MLB fans, if I could just have access to the games. But I can't. And so now my kids probably won't be MLB fans. Because there's no way in hell they are going to be Yankees fans (obviously) or Mets fans (too cruel to an innocent young man.) I have a feeling there are lots more like me out there, who are tired of being kicked like a loyal dog by MLB. I am not following the Sox on a computer and in box scores. I refuse to do it. Call it a protest or call it being smart: I am takin the 170 I would have spent on the package, and the (approximately) 400-500 bucks I would have spent on two trips to Fenway, and buying season tickets to an unaffiliated minor league team. No joke. The Red Sox, along with the Cubs and Yankees have the most spread-out fanbase in the league. They could have made a plea to prevent this, and they didn't. They sold their die-hards for a Rudy Seanez (or 10 games worth of JD Drew (if he plays 140 games, which is awfully unlikely.) So screw them. If they don't care about me, I am done caring about them. Go Bears.

Ball Two: My Pedestrian Friend

Training for the marathon is in full swing. Running 10-11 miles tomorrow, so it is going to be a quiet Friday night for me. Here's a fun story, though: yesterday I was running in my neighborhood, which, for those of you who don't know, is a nice neighborhood, surrounded by not so nice neighborhoods, and a park. Well, I had to run through the not-so-nice neighborhood to get to the park, which is fine. Sometimes it gets me an odd glare, or the occasional mumble from a passer-by (my favorite was when one gentleman saw Brian and I running quite early on a Sunday, and told us "you better run yo' ass out the 'hood") Hooray, gentrification! So yesterday it was about 17 degrees here at dinner time (when I was running.) And as I was approaching the park this elderly pedestrian walks past me, and simply says, "You're gonna freeze ya' man parts, Son." I was comforted to know that this old man was concerned for my man parts, and alas, when I got home and undressed, I wondered if perhaps my pedestrian friend was on to something.

Ball Three: Trying Out The Wire

I have started watching The Wire on Netflix, since pretty much everybody says it is the most amazing show on Television. I will say this: the drama, and action are pretty intense. The acting (so far, and it is the first season) is pretty bad. The directing seems pretty appropriate for the cop-style drama show. It is impossible to make a judgment based on three shows, but so far the hype is overrated. I am keeping an open mind.

Ball Four: Whatever

This is pretty much the most disturbing thing I have come across all week.

Which Side Are You On Boys, Tell Me Which Side Are You On?

2007-01-12T07:45:00.000-08:00

In the most recent edition of New York Magazine, there is an article about the 'edgy' art contingency on the L.E.S. known as Irak NY. These dudes are a bunch of graf artists, apparently, but from the article you get the idea that most of their art is super-gritty stuff, such as collages of newspaper articles with man-juice smeared over the top. Now, I am, admittedly, not that savvy when it comes to what's new in the art world, and what qualifies as certifiably good art. Apparently people pay tens of thousands of dollars for this stuff, which speaks to the value that some place on it as not only certifiable, but sustainable. That's neither here nor there really, as I don't wish to judge the artistic merits of Dash Snow and the other members of that community. What interests me most, however, is why this stuff is considered 'edgy' or new. Back in the day I went to school with the Grandson of a big-time newspaper industry magnate. He told us stories about how his parents who lived in a SoHo loft in the '70s used to take loads of acid and poop on canvasses, smear it around and sell this stuff for thousands of dollars. The moral of the story? Rich, white, kids have been taking drugs and rubbing fecal matter on paper and calling it art since the '70s. So why is this now considered edgy? I am interested in why people are reacting to this art as the 'next Warhol' or 'next Pollack' and more importantly, why we feel the need to annoint a 'next (pick the icon).' It happens in the sports world (LeBron is the next 'Jordan') in the music world (Clap Your Hands is the next Talking Heads, or Modest Mouse, or...) and even in the writing world (Marisha Pessl is the next Nabakov.) I just don't get this on a number of levels: the most obvious being, that the people we are always comparing the newcomers to were so successful and so earth-shatteringly awesome, precisely because they were totally incomparable to anything we had seen prior to their existence. Before Jordan we didn't know a Guard could simply snap his fingers and take over an entire game. Before Talking Heads music wasn't supposed to be that 'weird'. Before Nabakov, writing was supposed to be formulaic, and on, and on...

So why are we in such a rush to find the next huge thing by identifying it so closely with something that has already been. By nature this is asking art to be repetitive and emulative. Don't get me wrong, all good art has its inspirations. Pollack was clearly influenced by the Cubists, Talking Heads by prog rock, etc...And the art is often a reaction to what comes before it. But for art to AIM for comaparisons to or against its predeccesors seems, to me, to take away from the artistic liberty necessary to make something unique and inspiring. What is apparent both from the article, and from the little I know about Snow and the Irak folks, is that they have a deep-seated ambition to be compared to--and thought of as the torch-bearers of--the NY art scene of the '70's. Everything from the inherent wealth--who else can afford to be full time artists?--to the excessive use of drugs, participation in sort-of-illegal activity, to blurred boundaries of sexuality, family, spirituality and ethical responsibilities. The problem with this copy-cat behavior is that, while it is obviously a function of Youth, its also bound to lead to certain interpretations that are going to be dubious at best, and unabashedly mocking at worst.

While I think the author of the NYMag article, Ariel Levy, meant well, and tried to be honest with her portrait of Dash and the other Irakies, there are certainly moments where her coverage floats between the aforementioned interpretations. Towards the end of the article she admits it is easy to hate Dash and the rest, particularly for the hypocrisy of their lifestyle balanced against Dash's wealthy family background (see Dubious.) At other points in the article there certainly does seem to be the feel that Levy is standing behind the Irak Crew as they speak, and giving you the wink and nod (see mocking.) Of course, the fact is, this is the actual subjects killing themselves with their own words. For instance, one artist involved with Dash (McGinley, who is actually a pretty respected artist, but comes off sounding moronic) had this to say about Dash: "These kids that would go up on a rooftop, 40 stories up, and go out on a ledge to write their name—it’s just, like, the insanity of it all!" Insane? Hardly. Kids in Newark (who aren't getting commissioned thousands of dollars) do this crap on a nightly basis. He goes on to compare his art to Dash this way: "I’m into freedom and a celebration of life, and Dash is more about the fall of humanity." Knowing what we know about the absurdity of Dash's wealth (his brother dates one of the Olsen twins, by the way) it is hard not to smirk at the notion of him being a prophet of the fall of humanity. Dash who refers to himself as a derel (derelict, obvs!)gives the author this insight upon meeting her: "I was just down for it! I’m down with anyone, even if they’re bad people, if they’re just, like, anti-American, you know what I mean?" The idea obviously is that he's bad-ass, edgy, dangerous: he does drugs, tags billboards, lies naked in bed with men, empathizes with terrorists. I guess the idea is this gives him credibility. Unfortunately for him, it comes off as "resumé-padding," trying to establish his place, and prove he has earned it.

The thing is, Snow seems to (I cringe to say this) believe in the life-style he lives. That is to say, I think he does see himself as a derel and a total outsider to society. But no matter how hard he tries he will always be known to have come from society at its gaudiest: NYC old money. So when Snow talks about how 'down' he is, it is only natural for the reader to roll his eyes. Hypocrisy, even the unintended variety, is hard to sneak past the dubious public. Snow seemed aware of this following the release of Ariel Levy's piece. In the immediate aftermath the Irak NY blog ran an article calling it 'A Big Wack Story.' The comments, moderated by a member of Irak go on to make some seriously derogatory remarks about the sex and religion of the articles author. Referring to Levy, a very out lesbian, the commenters sling anti-semitic slurs, and discuss their desire to probe her orifices (very edgy stuff.) The moderator didn't seem to mind any of this obviously derogatory, and chauvenistic behavior: what did I say about hypocrisy? Of course, other recent blogs on the Irak board range from a drooling 'How long until June' headline (referring to the release date for the new iPhone, a $350 excessive-consumer's wet dream) to an article berating the US for sending more troops to Iraq (the one with a Q) and 'simply throwing money at a problem.' "So American" the blogger writes. Yes, American, like growing a hard-on over a hand-held communication device that costs more than the GNP of some third-world nations. Hypocrisy, it seems, is as much a part of being 'down!' with the Irak crew, as sleeping naked in bed with other dudes.

Dear Dash and the rest of the Irakis: The seventies are dead. If we continue to rehash the ghosts of Pollack and Warhol until we are blue in the face, the art scene in NY is going to be dead right along with it. Furthermore, if you want the world (the part of it that can't afford 90 Grand for your splooge-stained artwork) to take you seriously, you might want to reconsider how valuable it is to attack your critics at the cost of making yourselves seem like hypocritical angry boys. Surely Pollack and Warhol brushed off much harsher critiques than the piece from NY Mag. Maybe that's a piece of those guys--the last piece, I'd suggest--that you boys should learn to emulate.

39 Days Until Pitchers and Catchers Report

2007-01-07T18:00:00.000-08:00

Maybe tomorrow or Tuesday I will have something more intelligent to say about the drubbing the Jets took. For now: there are no moral victories in my book. Sure I am happy that the Jets season wasn't like the Raiders season, but losing to the FUGGIN Patriots in the playoffs sucks any damn way you cut it. Chad Pennington is NEVER going to be better than he was this year: which means he is never going to be good enough to make you a legitimate contender: Three goals for the offseason:

1. Add a possession back to compliment Washington Who Should be the every down back to start next season: maybe pick up Brian Leonard with the second round pick?

2. Decide what we have in Clemens. We used a second round pick on the kid. We need to find out soon if he is worth it, or if we should go after say...Troy Smith at the end of round 1.

2b. If Clemens is a legitimate enough QB to take a flyer as a starter, trade Chad to Cleveland or Detorit for a second round pick. Use it to shore up a Tight End or Outside Linebacker, which will effect what you do with suggestion number 3...

3. The Jets are targeted to have upwards of 26 million dollars in capspace this offseason: get a legitimate Tight End or Outside Linebacker out of free-agency...If Herm doesn't franchise Tony Gonzalez, he'd look GREAT in green.

If they had lost that game to any other goddamn team in the NFL I would rest easy tonight knowing that just getting here was a celebratory cause. But for the next nine months I will re-hear Tom Brady's smug punk-ass press-conference ringing in my ears:

"To beat a team that beat us at home a few weeks ago...and to beat 'em by 21 points feels really, really good." Like that game was really a breeze, and the final score was at all indicative of the quality of competition. F U Tom. And I am going to say it now, without a shred of regret: if Teddy Bruschi could go and have himself another stroke, that would be fuckin fantastic in my book.

Never Drove a Carmengia OR Do You Believe in Anything?

2007-01-05T08:27:00.000-08:00

Can we talk about God? Specifically, I want to talk about the people who make these outrageous claims that God has spoken to them. I don't want to mock them so much as just try to understand some things. I have always wondered two things about these people: first of all, when these people say things along the lines of, "I was lying face down in the gutter, in a pool of my own vomit and that's when God spoke to me and said I was headed down an evil path but I could save myself..." are these people saying, "I had this feeling--like an epiphany--that I had to get my shit together, and the only way I can describe it is by saying some greater outside force was giving me clear thoughts in a time when I was incapable of thinking clearly" or do they mean, "some little dude with a beard came down and I physically had a conversation with him." I'm not trying to be curt here, I am seriously interested because if it is the former, then I can empathize. I think we have all had moments of "epiphany," but if it is the latter, these people should seek help, right? And, going back to the former scenario, if it is just an epiphany, why do these people insist it was a god-figure, let alone the Christian God, who "spoke" to them? I just don't get it. Somewhere in the world I guess there must be born-again Jews and born-again Muslims. Just seems odd that the vast majority imagine this sensation to be the Christian God.

And why am I talking about this? Well, I think I talked to God. Not really, of course. Certainly not in the way that I think these people mean it. I just mean that I had a mystical (god I wish there was a better word) experience last night. How hippy of me, right? Here is what I mean: last night I was running in Liberty State Park right around dusk (6ish?) and ran deeper into the park than I ever have before. I was on a trail coming around a marsh, which had tall brush I couldn't really see over, and suddenly I make a turn and am turning onto a boardwalk that runs along the hudson with perfect views: of a shadowy and ominous Statue of liberty; of a dimly lit, but empty Ellis Island; and beyond that, the blazing lights of lower Manhattan. I was all alone in a cold, dark part of the park, caught somewhere between an eerie fear, and a comforting connective feeling with the large world in front of me. It was odd, right, to feel the loneliness that is inherent, first of all, in running, and secondly, in doing so in a dark and foreign place. Then, at the same time, to look past historical and cultural iconagraphy like the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island, into a microcosm of society like New York, where, beneath all of those lights, a million vignettes were playing themselves out. So many of them: vignettes of loneliness; love; heartbreak; joy; celebration; anger; violence; addiction; prosperit;, deceipt; betrayal; vindication. All of this is going on in front of my eyes, somewhere in New York, right? Somewhere in the world, right? And yet, there I am, observing it, acting as a voyeur to it, when in actuality, I can not see it, I can not but imagine it.

These things always recast themselves in our minds--these moments--to make them more perfect, more surreal, perhaps, then they were at the time of their being. So, I recall now, that I was thinking--before turning that corner--about work, what else? And how little satisfaction I get from it; how if I had done something else in school--i don't know, pre-law, maybe--I could at least make ends meet, and perhaps more. I was thinking about--well, I was wallowing in self-pity, quite frankly. And then I turn a corner and all of that splendor exploded into my field of vision like a blossom. That's not a reach for an image: it really felt like watching something blooming. And as I was caught up in all of this, I began to think of my father's Carmengia, of all things.

My father drove a Carmengia when he got out of college. It was as close to a sports car as he could afford, and, apparently this is how dudes in the sixties got tail: showing off volkswagen convertibles, and being the proud owner of quality dope would be a good alternative, I'd bet. My dad used to know alot about cars, it was a passion, I gather...sort of like baseball cards for my brother and me. I mean, he'd tell me stories about knowing cars by the revving of their engine, and so on. So this car was a precious piece of machinery, but he loved it moreso, I now think, because it was a piece of his childhood, something to collect and salvage from the innocence of middle-american-50's life, before shit got complicated with war, civil rights conflicts, assassinations (but I digress.) The point is, I think, for my Pop the Carmengia was his last memento to cling to that spoke to him of being young, the last shred of youth. He sold the car away a summer after he bought it with all of his savings, so that he could enroll in Seminary school where he met my mom. My mother attended seminary because she had some serious spiritual beliefs, a religious background, and probably because it was a free graduate degree. My dad attended because he needed "consciencious-objector" status to avoid the draft. He couldn't bring his car to school. And so he severed that last shred of his innocent youth.

Well maybe I am babbling, or maybe the reason I was thinking of the Carmengia in the first place is because here I am, the same age my father was when he sold that car, so he could attend seminary to avoid going to a war where he would inevitably end-up either dead, or permanently fucked-up. And for all of the faults of the '60's--the blind idealism, the divisiveness of political extremes, the everlasting pat-self-on-shoulder arrogance that the BabyBoomer Generation has suffocated us with--for all of those negative aspects, there is an inherent truth to the fact that this generation (mine) has been a greatly priveleged one. This is due, in large part, to the struggles of the two generations before us. There is a negative aspect to this: namely, the cynical, self-obsessive nature of being a generation of babied "adults" who have the privelege of using detachment as a shield from needing to believe in anything, or worse, as an actual belief system: the religion of disinterest. But there have been benefits, too: namely, people like me live in a world where we don't have to be held at a proverbial gunpoint and forced to grow up. (And I know there is a larger issue here about the people who are not priveleged the way that I am, and are held at this proverbial gunpoint, but in case it isn't already clear, I use my blog to think about issues that tend to be more local than global, and by "local" I mean "me.")

I certainly don't mean to preach, but it just seems that people my age are quick to fall back on cynicism or detachment as a tool to avoid serious debate or consideration of an issue, an artist, an institution. The common reaction to things that don't immediately gratify or please us seems to be: find something at fault, or at least fallible with it, and rip it to shreds in a sardonic manner. We hear a band we don't like: how derivative ("totally never heard that before. Sooo unique!" wink wink) or how cheesey, etc.; we roll our eyes at Literature we don't think is up to snuff; we mock those who dress differently, or disagree with our political tendency. This way there is no need to even attempt trying to understand where others come from, why others do, say, feel, different than we do. In a way, it's become a belief system of its own: a crutch on which we can rely when we don't know how we should feel about something, whether we should believe in anything.

This isn't just self righteousness speaking: look, I am guilty of it, too. It's just become ingrained. We are constantly absorbing information: new music; new clothes; breaking news; voyeuristic gossip; personal blogs; art, culture, television...all on demand. How can we not simply scoff at some of it? This has been the gift and the curse of my age group: the ability to mold our world to function as a "pod" of ourselves. Surround ourselves in music we like on our Ipods; dress in clothes we like; live in neighborhoods we like; read (or choose not to read) the news coverage we like; drink when we like; obsess over ourselves when we like; peep into other's self-obsessions when we like. It's all about me, and all about you. Shit, YOU were the Time Person of the Year! And yet, you and I can be caught at moments where our minds are practically moribund with self-pity, and look up to see the world (the REST of the world) unfolding before us.

And so maybe these are or aren't the thoughts I was thinking, when I ran beneath the dark silhouette of Lady Liberty, and looked upon the emptied grounds of the station where so many boatloads of people, who sacrificed to make our lives thus, first came upon these shores. And no, I did not, at that moment--looking onward to the greatest city in the world--feel thoughts of Patriotism, or even complete sentimentality for my heritage. What I felt in that solitude was an inexplicable connectivity to things past, things future, things present, and taking place beneath the lights of so many streets, covered by tall buildings, or lonely rowhouses. As some might say, I felt the presence of god. I say I felt a different presence--my own--in relationship to the rest of the world, for the first time in a while.

link

Sometimes You Eat the Bear

2007-01-03T05:58:00.000-08:00

My wife says my blog is depressing. Looking back over it, I can see where she gets this opinion from: the conitnuous bitching about my work, the image of the lonely drinker, the self-pity towards my mediocre writing (especially because she knows I could and should do more to improve this, on my own.) So I am going to make the kind of New Year's resolution regarding my blog that everybody else makes regarding their personal health, happiness, and hopes: the kind that probably won't ever get resolved. I am going to do my best to make the entries more positive. As far as those aforementioned personal health, hapiness, and hopes resolutions: run 4 days a week (this has been going on for a couple weeks now, and shouldn't be a problem) in training for the Jersey Shore Marathon in late April; see more movies; read more; write daily.

Go and Give 'Em Hell, or Don't Go and Give 'Em Hell

Finally saw "Little Miss Sunshine" on DVD. It was definitely better than I thought it would be. Alan Arkin is simply awesome, and Steve Carrell does a good job taking on the "comedic serious" role. Otherwise, there are some definite funny moments, some decent writing, and a nice soundtrack. I was upset at myself for not seeing it in the theater, but I think it might be more of a curl up on the couch and enjoy type-of-movie anyway. It isn't life-altering or anything, but I recommend it, if you're looking for something light-hearted, feel-good, but not excessively cheesey.

Other than that film on Thursday, my weekend went by way too fast. Brian came up last-minute on Friday, and he and I met Dan for some beer and Darts at Park Tavern. Called it an early night Friday so I could get up early and sober for the family christmas. Went out Saturday and was properly hungover for the Jets game (friend from HS called me last minute with Tickets.) The atmosphere at the game was pretty good, but until the Jets had a comfortable lead, people seemed leery of getting too amped up. By the Third quarter though, it was constant yelling, and everyone seemed genuinely pumped (and probably still somewhat awe-struck.) Almost everyone I overheard on the way out was having some variation on the "how the hell did this team make it to the playoffs?" conversation. Nobody really seemed to care whom the Jets would face, or if they could even play with any of the other AFC teams. Later on in the day, when I found out the Broncos lost, and the Jets would be playing the Pats, is when it finally sunk in for me: as I predicted over a month ago (with a little inspiration from Peter King) the Jets will be playing the Pats in the first round of the playoffs!

It's hard to think of the Jets as anything but underdogs going into this game. I have said it before, and still contend that the the Jets victory in Foxboro, week 10, was more of an abberation than the Jets really beating the Patriots. Any Jets fan who says anything along the lines of "The Patriots don't scare the Jets, anymore," is either lying or delusional. The Patriots still have Tom Brady and Bill Belichick and those two men have been a thorn in the Jets side for 4 years. One win does not erase all that. The Pats should be gaining some healthy defensive starters by Sunday, while the Jets will be losing Andre Dyson, whom I say has been their best Corner this year. The Pats have two legitimate RBs while the Jets need to rely on Leon Washington to keep breaking magical big-plays (something he has proven himself capable of time and again, as the season rolls along.) Breaking down the teams component-by-component its pretty tough to find a single edge for the Jets. And yet, when you compare the teams to one another overall it is hard to say just why the Pats would be favorites in this game (y'know...other than the fact that they have the best QB/Coach tandem in the NFL.) The math, oddly, doesn't add up. You don't believe me? Try it:

QB- PLEASE.
RB- Washington, as I said, has broken out some spectacular plays. His balance is outstanding, his speed impressive. But when teams have stacked the middle against the Jets, the way the Pats certainly will, they haven't had a strong enough RB to push back the line, and wear down the big guys.
WR- All right, here is one! The tandem of Cotchery and Coles has been overlooked all year, and they might be two of the most athletic receivers in the AFC. But, why have they been overlooked? Oh, right, because whenever Pennington has to hit them on an outside pattern he either throws the ball 10 feet wide or ten feet shy.
Overall Offense- Given the inconsistency of either team, can you really say the Pats offense is better than the Jets? Would it surprise anyone if Tom Brady's receivers bobble 3 or 4 big passes, and one or two end up in Kerry Rhodes' hands? Would it surprise anyone if the Jets force the WRs to be the difference-makers in the game by stacking the line? And does anyone really think that New England's WRs can be the difference in a playoff game? Can anyone name 2 WRs that play on the Pats? Sure, with Tom Brady at the helm in a playoff game anything is possible. The guy could throw for 340 and 3 touchdowns with just about the worst receivers in the NFL. The good news? He is going to have a chance to do just that. The Jets offense on the other hand: 100% reliant on Pennington. I can't remember the last game where Pennington looked completely sharp. If he doesnt change that pattern, Ben Graham could be spending alot of time on the new turf at Foxboro.
Defensive Line- The Pats D line has been unreliable all year. Sometimes it has seemed as though opposing QBs could catch a film and lunch with the amount of time they have been able to give him. Other times their opponents have been nailed for multiple holds early on and turned into a veritable sieve by halftime. The Jets on the other hand have been consistently OK on the D-line. But, its the Patriots in the playoffs. Expect the Jets O-Line to pick up some early holds and turn into that aforementioned sieve, while New Englands O-line holds the Jets all over the field, only to unleash a frustrated Victor Hobson onto Tom Brady mid-delivery on a crucial third down. Brady's pass will be incomplete. Hobson will get a personal foul for "roughing the passer." Brady will applaud the league for protecting its mostest precious asset. Hobson will be inexplicably fined 15 Grand. Moral of the story? If it's too close to call, always give the Pats the benefit of the doubt.
Safeties and Corners- Typically I'd give this nod to the Jets because Rhodes has been downright nasty this year. Buuuut, something tells me Rodney Harrison is going to be playing in this game. And given Dyson's injury, the corners probably favor New England. Edge: Pats.
Special Teams- Slight edge to the Jets. Speed is the key on special teams, and they have it.
Coach- Please.

So call me a homer, but the only real advantages I see there (and granted, they are not small, by any means) are Tom Brady and Bill Belichick. But, and I mean BUT, remember what I said following the week two game between these two teams: Bill Belichick is a time-bomb waiting to explode on that side-line. I don't think you can underestimate the lengths to which he will go (and therefore, the possibly foolish risks he will take) to show up Mangini and the Jets. I am not sure how it will go, but at some point in the game Belichick is going to take a risk that will either make him look like a genius or a overconfident fool. I have an odd feeling it will be the latter. So here is a scenario for you: 3 minutes left, the Pats winning 21-17. Pats have the ball on the Jets 29, fourth and five. Instead of kicking the field goal and forcing the Jets to score a TD to tie the game, Belichick goes for it. Wouldn't surprise me in the least.

Fearless Prediction: 24-21 Jets
"Told You So" Prediction: 28-20 Pats

Hang it Up Now or Never

2006-12-20T20:32:00.000-08:00

Hang it up Again

If my laptop was a phone, and my blog was my ex...this would be about as close to drunk-dialing as I have gotten in a while. I have absolutely no good reason to be blogging but I am bored, and alone, and drinking some port (after drinking some whiskey) so I figured why not? Of course, I haven't got much of anything to say, so here I am...

How's it goin' babe? Haven't seen y'in a while. Huh?! Wh'as'at? Naw, not too drunk, why? Jus' wanted to say 'what's up'...

Meg is at her Christmas party right now, which explains why I would be blogging on a couple glasses of Portuguese Port on a Wednesday at 11:30. Often times, I am quite jealous of people that work for well-established companies like the Wall Street Journal, and get to go to parties where some mythical being runs a tab and everyone is drinking their faces off on a Wednesday night, all in the name of the birth of Jeebus and the frugal oils of the Macabees. My own company picnic comes up on Friday, and allow me to take a moment to indulge in the "office culture" of my place of work. For the time being, let's just refer to it as "Nations Publisher." Here at Nations we don't exactly do a "christmas party" per se, just like we dont actually do a Chrsitmas bonus, nor a raise of any sort beyond the "cost of living increase" every six months, which at last calculation actually wasnt even enough of an increase in weekly take-home to cover my weekly increase in gas costs...but I am babbling. Anyway, at Nations what we do is more of a "social." Y'know, like that uncomfortable Jr. High dance, where the guys don't talk to the girls and vice-a-versa, and the chaperones try to facilitate a good time, but really everybody is monitoring their watches waiting for the moment that they can all go back to Tom's house, and steal a pack of his mom's Marlboro 100 cigarettes. The difference is, instead of the guys and girls being seperated by an invisible force-field, EVERYBODY is seperated by it. We need to call Michael Richards in to get to the bottom of this force field of hatred. Seriously, it's a problem. Here is the conversation I will have 10-20 times on Friday, while not drinking, and pretending to eat my room-temperature linguine:

Guy in a Turtle-neck (or woman in christmas-scene sweater, or weird accounting guy with a combover who walks around like Lurch, and gives everyone the evil eye: "So How's things in your department?!"

Me: "Same old, same old. You?"

Turtle/sweater/accounting: "Oh, not so bad. I can't believe this weather, though!"

(silence)

Turtle/sweater/accounting: "So I hear you got married."

Me: "Yep. In July."

T/S/A: "How was that?!"

UGHHH!!!!

At some point I will hurriedly retreat to the one table with people my age (who also happen to be people in my department, who ALSO happen to think I am a real jerk for some reason) and try to hold a normal conversation about like...football, and the drunk Miss USA, and shit...
End bitching and moaning about work.

You remember that time you called me fart-face at the beach?! That was great... Man, shit used to be great. Didn't shit used to be just great?!

I've gotten back to writing more often. Real writing. Well...not just blog-writing. Weird thing about applying to MFA programs: from the beginning of the application process, until basically the end, you (or I) don't really do much writing. All the time you would typically allow yourself for writing is flushed into revisions (and not the good kind, the knit-picky, overanalytical kind) and also the monatony of application procedures. I honestly wrote original stuff for an hour today for the first time since late October. Wild.

My dad's dog had surgery yesterday...lumps in her chest. This got me to thinking about my little bastard dog. I mean, I have only had him for 4 months, and he is good for a heart-attack a week, but still...I couldn't imagine being in my dad's position. He loves that dog. Like in a sick way. He makes my mom sit in the back sometimes because his dog wants to sit up front. No joke! Anyway, she is gonna survive (the dog, that is...we will see about my mom) but I just can't imagine it. I was bummed and stuff when my dog's passed away when I was a kid, but it is different when you are a kid. The totality of dog "ownership" when you are a kid is: "i want a dog" followed by "i have a dog!" followed by "i don't wanna walk the dog, Alf is on!" followed by "eww, mom, the dog pooed on the floor" followed by "the dog died?! WAAAAHHHH!!!!!" It isn't a highly involved process.

On the other hand, here is the totality of owning a dog when you are grownsed ups: I wanna dog, I can't have a dog in this apartment; lease is up, now I can move and get a dog; the dog is how much?! but i thought i was adopting, and doing you a favor, animal shelter people?! fine, i just won't go out drinking for a few weeks; dog pees floor 3 times a day x 5 or 6 weeks; this dog is cool now that he pees outside; i love this dog; worms? fuck! get him some medicine, wow that costs alot; play with dog in park, such an awesome dog; feed dog daily, this food adds up; dog stepped on glass?! jesus! 200 bucks at the vet; wow, this dog still licks my hand when i am feeling bummed, what a great dog!

Why you gotta go?! Aww, but we were jus' startin' to reminisisce...well I'll call ya t'morrow. Ca'I call ya t'morrow? First thing, kay?

Turned out to be Just God

2006-12-18T15:32:00.000-08:00

Introducing a gimmick: Hyperboles BIGGER THAN GOD!

I do my best not to be an excessively pessimistic blogger. It's easy to get suckered into the temptation of cynically mocking anything and everything that is more respectable or reputable than myself. I just feel like that is one recipe with which I need not cook. And here comes the big "however," right? However, one thing I cannot stand is the trend towards excessive hyperbole in sports media (particularly radio and those television debate-style shows, but print is not innocent of this at all.) Now, I am not talking about your typical "JP Losman may be one of the best Quarterbacks in the NFL" that you hear (following a wopping 200 yard day.) This stuff is annoying, but excusable considering these guys have to fill hour upon hours of NFL Primetime (or BBTN, or SportsCenter, etc...) with material that is meant to illicit discussions and debate. I am talking about just writing, or saying something that you know is downright absurd, and a completely agregious exaggeration.

For instance: have you heard about this new legislation attempting to ban men from women's practice teams? Yeah, I hadn't either. But according to ESPN's Nancy Lieberman, this might be the hottest topic in sports right now. Umm, what?! I mean, did she not have to submit this to an editor who might have, in turn, said something like "you're fuckin' joking with that line, right?" It's true though, man, this story is hotter than the AFC Wild-Card race, the hot-stove season with exploding contracts, the debate over the NBA brawling, and even the story of the resurgent New Orleans Saints (of which I hear the media is growing tired.) Surely this story, about men no longer being allowed to practice with women, is just as big. Here comes the pre-emptive attack: I'm not trying to be sexist, I am just a realist, and so on...but seriously. I don't know why this kind of writing bothers me, but I am certain it has something to do with the sheer laziness behind it all. I give Liberman some slack here, of course, because trying to make something like this seem interesting requires some creative spin (and she covered that by bringing in the Romo, Deion, etc..angle.) But there is a stark contrast between creatively manipulating a subject, and flat out falsifying its significance. Rating this offense on a scale of "harmless" 1 to "shameless" 11, I give Lieberman a break (only because she's a woman, and due to new legislation, couldn't get any assistance from the men) so this gets a 5.5.

What Did I say About those Lists?

In anticipation of every independent radio station on God's Green Earth playing an end-of-the-year countdown, Pitchfork and PopMatters came out with their respective top 50 (PFM) and 60 (PopMatters) "albums of the year" lists. So I thought I would quickly hop-scotch through those and point out any glaring omissions, or excessive fawnings I might find in each. To be honest, I think Pitchfork (sadly) is a little more in line with my own preferences so we will go through that list last. Also, surprisingly, there is more on the PopMatters list that I did not get a chance to enjoy...so that could be part of the issue. Problem number one is a glaring one, but it's really the biggest error, according to my preference:

I am glad they could fit M Ward and Destroyer's Rubies on there somewhere between Steven Bernstein (who's he?) and Beth Orton...who I am pretty sure is Cat Power, when Chan what's-her-name remembers to take her Zoloft. I say "bullshit." Both of those albums are top 20 albums this year, no question.
I also haven't listened to Much Lupe Fiasco, cause Rap isn't my thing, but 50th seems a bit low. Most people who like Rap put this in the top 5 or 10.
Who is Michelle Malone?
Didn't we all agree that the new Flaming Lips album was a failure. Better than Destroyer's Rubies. According to whom?
Good to see Bruce and Tom Waits on there...more on that when we get to you, Pitchfork.
Look, I love Pearl Jam. Just this weekend, I was drinking beers with friends, put on Ten, and remarked what an unbelievable album it is. But the new album sucks. We shouldn't be giving these people great the honors bestowed by placement on year-end lists, just because shit they did 15 years ago totally killed it. It's a 2006 list, right?
Isn't Kelley Stoltz the guy who playes the heroin dealer in Pulp Fiction?
Never heard this Casey Dreissen guy. But he should get docked a few spots just for those glasses.
Per The Roots, see memo on Pearl Jam.
The Dixie Chicks make my ears bleed.
Mastadon sucks, Arctic Monkeys Suck, and Gnarls Barkley?! There was one good song on that whole damn album.

And on to Pitchfork:

I haven't heard half of the 50-40 group, but that's probably because I am not cool enough. Decemberists, and M Ward however do not belong in a pile of poo, and since I don't know much about these bands, a pile of poo it is.
Tapes n' Tapes...I don't know just what to make of you. You either dont belong on these lists at all, or you belong alot higher than 40. Your like Bud Heavy. I shouldn't like you very much...but I love you lots.
Somebody told me this Danielson shit would be right up my alley. Then I downloaded an mp3. Somebody was wrong.
Good Call on Califone.
Bad call on Justin Timberlake.
Sunset Rubdown=Not that great. Destroyers' Rubies=Great. One of us is doing bad math.
I agree with 4 of the top 10. The other 6 make me want to cry. To be fair, Ghostface is probably pretty good. I just dont like rap. Batting .500.
Where the eff are Bruce, Bob Dyland and Tom Waits(whom I don't love but whose new albums I know are better than, say, The Pippettes)?!

End Snarky, Pessimistic rant right...NOW.

I Am Gonna Make it Through This Year If It Kills Me

2006-12-07T10:30:00.000-08:00

Some Thoughts on Lists

I get the feeling that this time of year we are all supposed to make lists. You know. Christmas lists. New Years resolutions. List our accomplishments over the past year. Lists of best albums. Best new writers. Best movies. Person of the Year. It seems like an ever-growing enterprise, this lists business. I've only had this blog for half the year. I think it started right around my wedding. But the original spawn of this whole thing started, I believe, about a year ago, now. So what better way to celebrate the year that was, then with some lists. We'll use it as an opportunity to recall what, in my book, was a pretty damn great year (a few stumbling blocks, aside.) I think we'll cover all the bases here: social events, arts, film, sports moments, books read, etc...The blog is the 21st-Century-Man's journal, in theory. I guess, if, in some alterworld my grandkids were to look back at this (and let's hope they skip the sections about my embarassing permanent body art) I would like them to see just how radical their Gramps was. Totally living on the edge, and all that. Today, I'm liking the arbitrary number six. Without further ado, some Top Sixes:

Six Best Sports Moments:
6- Jets beat Patriots in Foxboro. I know. This should really be higher. But as I have said before, it was just a terribly boring game (outcome notwithstanding.) Given that it now is a crucial W, in terms of making them a viable contender for the playoffs down the stretch, I am man enough to admit it was a good win. Even if Pennington played like Neil O'Donnel. I can't wait for the rematch in round 1 of the playoffs.

5- Tigers Trounce Yankees in Playoffs. Any time the Yankees get knocked out of the playoffs it is a top ten moment in my sports year. The fact that they did it so convincingly was a little vindication for just how poorly the Sox played down the stretch while the Bombers were playing their best ball.

Tied 3- Jets Almost Beat Pats in Great Comeback, Giants Stadium. When can a loss to your rivals be even better than a victory against them? When you are at the game, it is a gorgeous day, and your uncle and pops, whom you've brought along are beaming ear-to-ear, beacause all three of you know you're watching a team that has heart. And said team hasn't exhibited said heart, in, oh, about three years.

Tied 3- Sox get pounded by Yanks in 5-gamer, Tickets to Game 3. Again, an aesthetically odd choice. Nobody likes to have front row (not literally) seats to watch their favorite team get paddled by their rivals. But if you can tell me what's better than sitting with one of your best buddies, draining cold brews, and watching your respective favorite teams play a day game rivalry in Fenway park, I'd love to hear it.

2- Rutgers upsets Louisville. Watched the game at a sports bar, surrounded by NJ citizens who were actually rooting for RU football with passion. The first time I can EVER claim that has happened. Let's hope it isn't the last.

1- Red Sox Lose a Toughie to A's, Roof Box Seats. See 3B. Multiply "1 of your best buds" by 12. Add in a 2 hour bus-ride, 4 cases of beer, and a group of old guys, including one who is 24 hours away from becoming my father-in-law. Watch fireworks ignite.

Top Six CD's Acquired:

6- Grizzly Bear, Yellow House. Just an all-around excellent album. Brian burned this for me over our "stuck in the middle of crazy-ass duck-huntin' Maryland/Delware territory. In the best way, this was the perfect music to evolve out of that weekend: eerie, haunting, yet infused with tons of punk-rock qualities. Shades of Liars and Animal Collective but way more subtle. Perfect evening driving tunes.

5- Thelonius Monk, Monk's Dream. I am pretty sure my dad told me about this little gem. Jazz is mood music for certain. But if you can't listen to this one while sipping some wine, and reading a good book, then there is something wrong with you. Monk's control of rhythm and timing is insane. He is working on a completely different rhythm pattern than most musicians can even comprehend, let alone some idiot like me. I heard an interview on FUV that Monk was known for spending up to 24 hours sitting in one place contemplating arangements. When you hear this album, such assertions really don't sound that ludicrous.

4- The Many Sides of Fred Neil. Hands down the best old-school folk album I have purchased since John Wesley. I can't listen to Dolphins without wanting to dance around like some bra-less hippie chick at a be-in. Dylan, Buckley, Prine, and Springsteen all consider him a prime influnence. There is no other album which predicates these guys best stuff the way this album does. The guitar is fantastic. So fantastic, that it got a spot on this list over John Fahey.

3- Bruce Springsteen, We Shall Overcome (The Seeger Sessions) Don't care what you think about Bruce. Don't care if you've never heard of Pete Seeger. A good, honest cover/tribute album is rare. One that is THIS good/honest comes around once, maybe twice, every decade.

2- Belle & Sebastian, If You're Feeling Sinister. For some reason, this is one of the Belle and Sebastian CD's I hadn't bothered to pick up for quite some time. In the early spring I went and scooped it up, in preperation to go see them with my Pop, who, in all his hipster glory, actually introduced me to them way back in the day, with this album. Upon first listen, I basically was transported back to my parents living room, where my dad made a habit of spinning this on spring and summer Sundays. On second listen and beyond, I realized, indubitably, that from start to finish, it is the most nearly perfect album in the pop-folk genre.

1- Destroyer's Rubies. Why did it take me almost 5 months to get this CD again? This is the best Indie CD I have bought since NMH, and that is no exxageration. Amazing lyrics, affected but pleasant vocals, and fantastic layers of intruments. All around FUGGIN great. It really isn't an album that words can do justice. Go get it. Now.

Top Six Arts/Music/Lit. Events:

6- A Night With Camille Paglia. I hope my memory suits me correctly, because I believe this happened in February. Anyway, Paglia is a controversial figure. And while I didn't agree with about half of what she said (and a good 75% of the poems she chose for her definitive Poetry collection.) Nonetheless, it was a great lesson in where poetry has become stagnated in the minds and discussions of most scholars (both those Columbia-types whom Paglia directly called to task, and the supposedly progressive camp in which Paglia would like to claim a stake.) Suffice to say, I don't believe Wanda Coleman is taking poetry (particularly American poetry) to fronteirs it has never been, or was never destined to go, should it follow its predictable path. I can continue to mention the same names (have I mentioned Maurice Manning before) but history says, it won't be for another 30 years or so until due recognition is received.

5- Belle & Sebastian at Nokia Theatre. Music-wise, you really couldnt ask for a better performance (well maybe if The New Pornographers had been better...) The Venue was nice, but way the fuck overpriced. And the audience was what was to be expected. 50% there to enjoy really good music, 50% there to be seen in their vintage sweaters and coke-bottle glasses. Plus the night gets bonus points, because my brother, who had to fill-in for my pops last minute, decided to wear an almost identical jacket to mine, leading us to our fifteen minutes of indie-fame, as stars of a concert review.

4- Hopper Exhibit and Picasso/America at the Whitney. I just mentioned this one last week. If one has to spend a Friday night, sober, and hungry, there are far worse things one could do with said time, then study some of the most amazing paintings by one of America's finest artists, in one of NYC's historic charms. Negative points for the DBs who managed to sidle next to me at every single exhibit and proclaim such insightful nuggets as: "Doesn't that look exactly like our vacation house?" and "Pollack was waaaayyyy better at the end of his career."

3- Wooden Wand @ Knitting Factory. Apparently if I had been patient enough to stay for the entire Akron/Family show this would have been an easy choice for number one. Instead I got a little too carried away sipping on PBR as James Toth did his crickets-on-a-summer evening thing. A fantastic 2 hours, that should have been a mind-blowing 5 hours.

2- The Undertow Orchestra and General Museum-hopping, DC Blizzard. This was one of the most excellent weekends all year. It was filled with not-really educational, but justifiably cultural activities like wandering through the Museum of the American Indian, dodging the cult-liberals at the Momuments, and finally seeing one of the best musical concerts I have seen all year, all in the middle of a huge snowstorm, trumped by a massive snowfight with strangers in the streets of Arlington, VA. Amazing.

1- Silver Jews @ Webster Hall. Awful venue. But whatever. This was likely a once in a lifetime experience, what with the fact that David Berman is probably never touring again. The music was good, the atmosphere was fine. But what made it fucking fantastic was the mere fact that I was watching a genius at work, in the one rare circumstance that any human being would ever get to do so in such a venue. My immediate reaction was ambivalence. Looking back on it now, it was one of the highlights of the year.

Six Best Headlines

6- Mel Gibson Goes Hitler On Us. Totally unexpected, yet totally unsurprising.

5- Drinking Coffee Cures Your Liver After Drinking. Fucking fantastic.

4- Marf54. Members of the Legislative branch, having cybersex with 14 year old boys. Time-defining.

3- Michael Richards Goes Hitler On Us. Wow. If the cellphone video footage of his rant didnt shock and awe you, the apology on Letterman, in all its akward glory, had to do the trick.

2- T.O. Does or Does Not Try to Commit Suicide. What an odd, odd, day to work in Sports News. Fascinating.

1- Macacca. If you look at it now, it sure seems that George Allen's big moment of folly cost him the Senatorial Race in Virginia, which in turn meant the Democrats taking both the House and Senate...which in turn means, perhaps, George Bush will be held accountable for his decisions for the next two years. And to think, if certain Republicans had either kept their mouths shut, or avoided sexy-talk with 14 year old boys, this whole situation could be completely different.

Six Best Movies/DVDs/TV Shows Seen:

6- Borat. Oh my god was this movie funny. Was it the world-altering comedy some people made it out to be? No. Was it hilarious from start to finish? Yes. Did it usher back in an irreverent style of comedy we havent seen since Mel Brooks in his prime? Let's hope.

5- Season One, Rescue Me. This show is just plain good. It isn't political, it isn't moralizing. It isn't terribly thought provoking. It is just the perfect combination of humor, emotion, excitement, and drama. Season One was the show at its rawest, and sometimes most absurd. But in a way, this makes it even more appealing. Anyone who doesn't like Dennis Leary should watch just one episode, and then read an article about the background of the show. Perceptions alter.

4- The Last Waltz. I don't know why the hell it took me so long to see this. Scorsese, and The Band?! Together?!?! Why woudln't this be a fantastic music DVD?

3- Thank You For Smoking. I wrote about this a-way-back-when. Perhaps on myspace? Anyway, as far as Satires go, this film is totally fantastic. Great acting, hilarious writing, poignant direction. All Around, the Bee's Knees.

2- This Season of The Office. The best sitcom on TV. By a mile.

1- Old Joy. Brokeback was a good movie. It would have been a great movie, had it been subtler. Had nature played an even more prominent role, and less of a signifier, I think it had a chance to be the best movie made in a long, long, time. And as good as Ang Lee is as a director, he missed some serious opportunities to make that film a work of sheer beauty. Each opportunity he missed, is capatilized in Old Joy by the young Director, Kelly Reichardt. I have never read the short story by Raymond, upon which this is based, but all interviews indicate that the film couldn't have done more justice to the story. It takes serious study of a text to create such a faithful interpretation, and that alone is cause to be impressed. The fact that the acting is nearly flawless, the characters hyper-realistic, and the cinematography awe-inspiring is an added bonus.

Best Six Books Read:

6- Shape of Things to Come by Greil Marcus. Sadly it had been almost two years since I had read, and finished, an entire lit. theory book when I picked this one up. However, I have to say it was for pretty good reason: Lit. Theory is generally, sleep-inducing in its boredom. HOW-evah, Marcus is onto something. He draws in musical theory, popculture analysis, and even a little bit of intriguing historical context to create the story of America, in textual form. I wouldn't suggest jumping into this book without some serious familiarity with some of the central subjects: namely, Dylan, Phillip Roth, HG Wells, and Dos Passos' 42nd Parallel (more on that later) but even if your knowlege of these is vague, one can take away from this a great lesson on the American predicament: the significance of national identity in a nation of individuals.

5- To Hate Like This is to be Happy Forever by Will Blythe. Sports books are a tough read. It's hard to combine the thrill, and the minute-to-minute play-by-play involvement of watching a great sporting event, with the nuances of good writing. Perhaps that is why sports books are best when they are biographical. In many ways this is the biography of the irrational fan, fueled by one of the best rivalries in sports. Blythe, a diehard UNC fan, writes about the UNC/Duke rivalry with as much level-headed analysis as one can expect from a guy who watches certain games in the fetal position, hoping his feng-shue will alter the outcome of the match. If you are a die-hard fan of a team, and appreciate solid, unpretentious writing you will enjoy this immensely. If you can relate to the madness of being a fan of a team embroiled in a rivalry such as this, you will simply love Blythe's tale.

4-Molloy by Beckett. As far as really confusing, hard to read post-modernism goes, this is probably the most accesible by way of its universality. A friend of my dad's in Easton is a pretty big Beckett Scholar, and argues that the essential thesis of Beckett's writings, the trilogy, in particular, is that modern man's greatest fear is his own insignificance. Why else would we have invented blogs?

3- Imre Kertesz' Liquidation. At 120 pages, novellas like this tend to be forgettable. But part of what makes Kertesz such a great writer is his ability to give us just enough information, and allow us to mold the story for ourselves. Like Calvino, he plays with the form of literature to make us think more broadly about literature itself. In undertaking this book, ones is reading less of a novel than the ways in which one actually reads. With which characters can we identify, when the characters exist solely as a function of their own being. Narcissism, Self-indulgence, and nihilism are all central themes, and yet Kertesz is questioning the very need of such themes in the human experience, and more particularly in modern literature. What makes a tale a tale worth telling? A novel a novel? And if a tale told is not explicitly told at all, but rather is an experience, does this cheapen, or contrarily inflate its value to the reader?

2- Memoir of the Hawk by James Tate. I don't know what's most surprising about this book of poetry: that I am so astounded by it, or that the literati agress with me. The same people who proclaim to love Ashberry and Kenneth Koch, are suddenly finding worth in an author whose goal seems to be to deride the very lyrical poetry which sprung from that New York crowd. Having said that, there are times when Tate (particularly in his early poems) seemed to be writing almost for effect. While I can see why others enjoy this, it isn't until I read the Hawk, that I could feel Tate as a personal influence on my writing. Colloquial style, aside, there is something fantastic about the commonality, and the simplicity of his impossibly wild imagery that makes a writer like Tate endearing among writers who seem to be obsessed with craft over content.

1- Dos Pasos 42nd Parallel. Wow. Dos Passos work was the only major work discussed in Shape of Things to Come that I wasn't already familiar with. And now that I have read it is is pretty clear why. The choppy, incohesive style, along with the scathing analysis of American life throughout the course of the 20th Century are an immediate harbinger of why the book would never be a popular critical darling. And yet, it is perhaps, one of the most ultimately American books written post-Twain. Greif, Despair, Isolation, hope, chaos, and the desire to compartmentalize our lives into controllable pieces, make it a true American tale. It is all there. There are bizarre and inexplicable moments, but if you happened to catch just one of my top six headlines, then you know. "Bizarre" and "Inexplicable" are often the best descriptive when adressing the stories that make up this great nation.

Six Mostest Amazingest Weekends

6- DC Blizzard. See events #2.

5- Fourth of July, Out and About. Just an all around fun long-weekend in which I got to see family, friends, and eat BBQ food all weekend. What more can we ask for during the summer?

4- Memorial Day BBQ, Darien. Perfect way to start the summer. Passed out on your buddies lawn.

3- Bachelor Party. Pizzas, sodas, some go-fish. That kinda thing.

2- Honeymoon, KBP/Bahamas. Everybody should be required to take 2 weeks off for their honeymoon. Best vacation I have ever had. Maine was the ideal amount of activities (beach, shopping, great meals, canoeing) and interspersed with the sheer laziness of 5 days in the Bahamas, it was the perect celebration.

1- Wedding Weekend. Best weekend of my entire life. If you were there, thanks so much for being a part. If not, you can always live the night vicariously, here.

Rockin' on the Horse Size Pills

2006-12-01T10:54:00.000-08:00

Yeah I don't like the Dandy Warhols Either, Man

But still, it's apropriate to mention the lyrics given the fact that, even though mankind is able to cram an entire Robert Siegel-size CD collection (dont bother trying to wikipedia that) into an Ipod the size of a baby's elbow, we are somehow still incapable of making certain medicine pills much smaller than that. (WARNING: This post will discuss my various medical issues, it will not be exciting, and other than the fact that my colon is weaker than Chad Pennington's arm, there is not much in the way of sports discussion here...well maybe a little at the end.) So anyway, thus the Dandies lyrical reference in the title, in reference to these awful metallic-tasting walnut sized pills I am shoving down my throat these days to keep my underside from bursting into flames. Lets hope never to cross-reference 90s grunge music from the My So Called Life soundtrack, like, ever again, OK?!

All apologies (ah, did it again) for my absence in the blogosphere, lately. See, in case you haven't picked up on it, I have been a bit under the weather. In other words, I hope you all enjoyed your thanksgiving, because I spent mine with my knees to my chest, cursing the gods in agony in my freshly painted bathroom. I mention that it was freshly painted, 'cause, well, I painted it...on Wedensday night, in preperation for hosting the in-laws, parents, and brother for the holiday. And while I was painting said bathroom I felt a pretty odd empty rumbling in my stomach. So...no big deal right? WRONG! For the next three hours my schedule looked like this: paint 4 sq. feet, clutch waistband, rush to toilet, RELEAAAASSSEEE!!!! repeat. Oh my god. It was awful. It took me 4 hours to paint the bathroom, a good 75% of which time was spent tearfully gripping the side of the sink and wall (whoops, forgot the paint was wet!) as my stomach punished me for every awful thing I had ever done to it:

Jello Shots with Cheap vodka in Tenth grade? TAKE THAT!!
Beer-Case race with Stanley after Graduation?! HIYAAAA!!
Budweiser and Hamm's like water freshman Year?! BAAAAAAMMMM!!!
Libya? Quarters? Golf? Hockey? Asshole?! LITERALLY, BITCH!
Bratwurst and Keystone at Tailgates?! MUAHAHAHAAA!
Grain Fruit Punch in the Water Cooler? OYYYYY!!!! UGGHHHHH!
Jameson Shots? Jaeger Shots? Vodka Shots?! FUGGGGGG MEEEEEE!!!!

You ever have the feeling that sometimes karma is the cruelest fate? Sometimes you're walking and you stub your toe really friggin' hard, and all you can think is, you know I deserve that for laughing at that guy who dropped the moving boxes on his toes, or whatever? Or, you know, certain friends with really nasty senses of humor, who think roofies are funny, or whatever, just happened to be the only people you know who actually get roofied. It's crazy how the world works. I mean, the more crap changes, the more certain things remain constant: sure, it's 69 degrees in December. But there's still war in the Middle East, You will still get hungover if you drink too much, you will still be annoyed every time you look at the column on your paycheck where the taxes are deducted, and you will still always pay for what you get. You always pay for what you get. It's the constants: death, taxes, and retribution.

Now, ostensibly speaking of course, my stomach was in a rage because I ate somethig foul (I am blaming the Chili I accidentally left out over night.) But it isn't really about the Chili. I mean, it is...but it isn't. You see, it is only about the Chili in that said Chili just happens to be the vessel that Karma chose to ride down my esophagus to my tailpipe and plant its infectious seed. What it is really about is payback for all of the awful, awful things I have done to my tummy the last 9 years or so, with the equivalent of a wrist-slap in return. I deserved it. I earned it.

So I spent Wedensday night until this Tuesday feeling like that. I tried to drink Friday (awful idea) and work Monday (bad idea) and went to a Doctor Wedensday morning. Just yesterday I ate my first whole meal in a week. Diagnosis: colonitis. Sounds like a minor inflamation right? No big deal. I am telling you: I was at death's fuckin' door. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemies. So the Doctor gave me these horse-sized pills, "No problem, just take two of these a day," he shrugs and sent me on my merry way. And as I am on my way out the door, this: "Oh, and Geoffrey. No drinking and just bland food for the next five days. Pasta, baby food. That sort of thing. But NO drinking."

Call Me Samsa, George Samsa.

Back the fuck up. Is he kidding me?! Look, I don't mean to whine. Five days of pasta, and bread and shit is fine. I mean cancer patients have to eat yogurt and rice for the reast of their lives. I should complain. Five days without drinking? Small price to pay for an iron-clad stomach that will be ready to rage for nine more years until my next torturous collapse. But, Doc. What the christ! Bland food, and no drinking?! What do you think I have been doing for the last week? Ripping down Mad Doggs and eating Kung Pao Chicken? I could have given me that advice. So essentially, my wife's health insurance company just wrote you a check for a couple hunny just so you could write a prescription for apple-sized immodium?! I cry foul.

It's my fault, really, for being such a man. Three times in the past week I could have bitten the bullet and gone to see this crotchety old pill-man, but I balked because I figured it would just go away with bland food and lots of Pepto. And it teased me, and teased me, but it stuck around. Right Until Wednesday, when I finally caved in, went and got these monster pills. And so I took the first dose. And guess what. It went away. One friggin' dose. But I had 9 of them left. And I "have to go through the cycle or it could mutate." So now? Baby food and seltzer for four more days. Do the math: I went to the doc on Wedensday. 5 days later is Monday. Great, I can have Coors and Salsa Picante for the friggin' Eagles Panthers game. Awesome. See that timing? Of course I had to try and work on Monday and let the Dr. appt. wait until Wedensday. Karma, kids. But more importantly...my weekend. What about my weekend?!

I don't mean this in an "I need to drink to have fun" kind of way. I don't know that the truth is far from that, but still...my universe is larger than barrooms and packed fridges, I think. But until something TOTALLY devestating like this happens, you really don't appreciate how much of a detour this puts on your weekend journey. I mean, I think we can all recall a certain post I wrote about that feeling I typically get on Fridays (hey what ever happened to those two dudes, anyway?) So of course, I have that feeling now, and, of course, my burning love for Friday Afternoon beer delight will go unrequited. So what do I do? Well, there's this great show at the Whitney ending today (see the bottom, ignore that weird hippy chick.) I could go see that. And the new Bond is out. I want to see that. Or I could read, or write. I could go to a coffee place and read or write. No I cant. Coffee's out. I could sip a water and read, or write. Ok, no reading or writing. So I will probably got to the Whitney. Or the movies.

Then there is tomorrow: annual pierogie making day at the old homestead. This is usually a fine enough event. It is something that has to be done (fueling the fire of heritage, and all) but, to be quite honest, it involves 6-10 hours of not only co-existing, but also collaborating with my mother. In other words, it is a project best supplemented by a steady flow of cold beers. No such luck. I give us two hours before the flour is flying, the pots are boiling over, my mother is crying and I am testing the validity of this warning label that says "mixing with alcohol may cause dizziness, vomitting, and death."

Saturday night? Rutgers/WVU. Great game to watch with a few brews. This time of year the better liquor stores start carrying Sam Smith's Celebration. Fantastic, right?! Not for me. I will be miserably watching the Knights BCS hopes smolder in the rain. Sober as a priest. Great!

The list goes on like this. And it gets worse. Believe it or not it gets worse!! I know, friends, I'm putting together a message board like Barbaro's where we can all commiserate over my sad lot in life, this unfair hand I've been dealt. So Monday, obviously, I am not going to celebrate my two weeks (10 days at that point) of sobreity by ripping through a gallon of Popov. It's Monday. I can't roll like that anymore. Tuesday is out. I have to be at work early Wednesday morning. Wednesday night would be great! Except, I told someone I'd give them a ride to the airport at 10! Thursday night. A round 13 days of Sobriety. Fantastic. Oh, I have to meet my parents for dinner in Gladstone. Fortunately, not into drinking and driving...anymore. Well that settles it. Friday it is. TWO friggin' weeks of sobriety, but next Friday, I am going to sit on my ass and just chug beers. What's on? NBA? College Football? College Basketball? Who cares. I'll drink and watch hockey. Oh, but there's this. My wonderful wife, as part of her new job, has a few "perks" which are almost always awesome. One of them she gets to use the Dow Jones luxury box at MSG to entertain clients. And next Friday some clients have asked for entertaining. So she asked me to join. Awesome. Free booze? great? Free food? Fantastic! Whose playing, Knicks? Rangers? Indoor Lacrosse?! A concert? Who? My Morning Jacket?! Stones? Almans?! U2? U2 is ok, I can even handle U2! UHm...what? What'd you say? I could have sworn you just said DASHBOARD CONFESSIONAL!?!! Are you kidding me? Dashboard Confessional? For serious? UGHH. I'd rather see The Dandy Warhols. Well at least there is the free cheeseburgers. And then, of course, me and beer. United at last. After two LONG weeks.

No Barkin' From the Dog, No Smog...And Momma Cooked a Breakfast with no Hog

2006-11-17T05:54:00.000-08:00

Happier Days

Alright, and we're back. Better moods. I think I woke up on the wrong side of the bed on Wednesday, although I did mean what I wrote. So, now that the nervous breakdown has subsided a little bit, let's do a little voyeurism, and talk some sports, shall we? Pull out the football, the cold brews, and the lipstick and panties. Err...just the football and cold brews'll do. First of all some sage wisdom on sports betting: don't gamble on the NFL this year. It is a tremendous waste of money. Something very odd is going on in Las Vegas this year, and something even more odd is going on with the middle fifty percentile of NFL teams. The Jets could beat the bears by 9 this weekend, or lose by three touchdowns, and frankly neither would surprise me. Conversely, the NCAA football scene has been rather predictable, aside from last weekend, where teams were letting spreads and points slip through their fingers like greased pigs. Anyway, I had a five team parlay last weekend that got tremendously botched by the Giants ATROCIOUS defense (had they kept the score under 38.5, I would be sitting at a blackjack table in AC right now, and not at my cubicle, but that's a different tragic story for a different blog.) For the sake of my marriage it is probably good I didnt end up with 1100 expendable dollars, as this will allow me to stay home and finish wallpapering tonight. For those of you who have never gotten into wallpaper, don't do it. It's a horrible, horrible thing. Somewhere on par, I imagine, with popping ludes, or tripping on bad Acid while watching In The Name of the Father (something a college roomate of mine once did, which made me permanently fearful of such activities.) I will be done bitching about condo renovations in early December, at which point I will share before and after photos, so I can stroke my man-ego for all the awesomeness I have brought into this world with a hammer, a power drill, and a paint brush.

Another thing consuming my life: MFA applications. For the sake of community chuckles, I am going to post all rejection letters in their entirety on here for us to share with delight. Some applications are already out the door, most will be out by early December. So here's the lineup, in order of desired acceptance, 1 (if I don't get in I will weep into my pillow, if I do get in, I will wonder if they didn't mix up my portfolio with somebody else's) through 9 (If I don't get in, I will scoff at their stupidity, if I do get in, I will wonder of they didn't mix up my portfolio with somebody else's.)

1. University of Houston (Advantages: Nick Flynn is a professor there, and has read some of my stuff; Tend to lean towards young, fresh, new styles; excellent faculty; good funding. Disadvantages: less than 5% acceptance rate; endless ball-sweat for three years, will need to adjust to lard being the missing block on the food pyramid. Wild Card: Was Nick's reading of my stuff positive enough to help me out? Can I live in Non-Austin Texas?)

2. University British Columbia (Advantages: Low-Res, wouldn't have to move; young, fresh, new styles; good faculty; no funding, but could work close to full-time; no move required; bi-annual trips to Vancouver. Disadvantages/Wild Card: If I was free-lancing and MFAing from home, would I really work as hard as I need to?)

3. Warren Wilson (See above, replace "Vancouver" with "Asheville")

4. University Minnesota (Advantages: Ground-breaking, definitely most willing program to take a risk on unusual styles; fantastic faculty; very good funding; if I am going to move, Minneapolis seems better than Houston or Arkansas, and they have Caribou Coffee. Disadvantages: I get cold easily; less than 5% acceptance rate; HEAVY teaching load. Wildcard: Would I like or dislike the greater reading emphasis compared to other programs? The weather in Portland depressed me...the weather here is probably worse.)

5. NYU (This would probably be tops--or close to it--except I am NEVER going to get in, so I pushed it down. Plus, I see NYU kids every week. They annoy me.)

6. Arkansas (Advantages: everyone I am reading went there; good faculty; awesome funding. Disadvantages: Arkansas. Wildcard: No, really...Arkansas.)

7. Sarah Lawrence (Advantages: proxmity; good funding. Disadvantages: Not a great faculty, more theory-based curriculum than I would like.)

8. Stone Coast (Portland, ME) (Advantages: See U.B.C., replace "Vancouver" with "Maine"; disadvantages: not very cutting-edge; lesser faculty.)

9. Stanford Fellowship* (* This doesn't really belong ninth, it is just a completely different opportunity than the rest. It does not end with a degree. However, they essentially pay you 30 Grand a year to write for yourself and extra money to teach, which is pretty amazing. Less than 1% acceptance rate. Seriously.)

So that's the deal. If I am being totally honest with myself I would say I have a decent shot at two: Stone Coast, Warren Wilson. I'd say I have an outside shot at 3: UBC, Sarah Lawrence, Houston. I'd say I have next to NO shot at 4: NYU, UM, Arkansas, Stanford. Rejection letters should be rolling in from December 1st thru early March.

You Kiddin' Me?! Some Thoughts on the Application Process:

For the life of me, I can't understand why all of these schools don't get together and have one common online application, and one common recommendation form. I understand the need for different schools to target their "statement of purpose" questions in different directions, obviously the Low-Res schools want you to talk about how independent you are, and how you would benefit from a one-on-one relationship over a workshop atmosphere, while the residency programs want you to say just the opposite. But honestly: every MFA student (9 out of 10) is seeking the degree because they just want time and space to write. That's it. Sure it makes a difference if you prefer to workshop in groups or to be a hermit and send your portfolio back and forth with a professir, but essentially, the writing sample should be (and to a certain extent is) all that matters. However, recommendations are pretty significant, which under the current system is unfortunate for two reasons. First, it favorst current undergrads over people like me...who is going to get a better recommendation? A kid who goes up to his professor after class and asks for one, or me, writing an email 3 years later, saying, hey! remember me?! wanna write me a recommendation?! And then, the fact is, the professors have to write between 5 and 10 different versions of the recommendation. It is stupid and foolish.

I understand that studying for the LSATs and the GMATs, etc. is extremely difficult and taxing. However, I will NEVER be convinced that the waiting period (between appliaction send-off, and notification) is more nail-biting for any program than it is for an MFA, whether it be visual art, or Creative Writing. I mean, with Law School, you can look at the GPA and LSAT scores of the recent enrollees, and at least get an idea of what your chances are. With MFA it is totally subjective. Most schools have a 3 person reading panel, who spend an hour or so each with between 10 and 20 pages of what you "think" is your best work, and you have to hope one of two things happen: all 3 of them think it is great or 2 of them think it is great, one of whom loves it so much he/she is willing to lobby the others for you. Say, that EVERY reader agrees on 4 or 5 writers whom they think are cream of the crop. That leaves about 10 slots open, and you have to hope that out of a couple hundred writing samples, yours is one of the ten that catches just one readers' eyes enough that they feel confident putting their judgment on the line to lobby for you. Half of these spots will be filled because 2 of the readers will be female readers, minority readers, or gay readers who read a sympathetic voice that they love (sorry to bring sex, and race into this, but it's a factor, as in all things...readers identify with writers for a number of reasons. An oversexual, drunken, hopelessly white slob of a professor, who loves boxing, and talking about women's legs might read my poetry and shit himself with glee. Lets hope.) Good, so there's five spots. Now you have a few hundred applicants to fill five spaces. And you have to hope that for WHATEVER reason, someone whom has never met you, and is reading a minute fragment of your life's work, latches on to something in your writing that they feel so strongly about that they fight to get you in. And the most grueling part? You have your sample on your desktop every day for the next 3+ months, and every day you will look at it, and think of a way it could have been improved. I'm already appalled with half the stuff I sent. And yet, the way this process works, that could be the stuff that gets me into one of the better programs, and laughed out of one of the lesser. 9 Rejections wouldn't surprise me. More than 2 would. But if it is going to be one or two? I couldn't take a stab in the dark at which 1 or 2 it would be. Depends which side of the bed my readers wake up on I suppose.

Not Sure What it all Means, But Dont it all Mean Somethin'?

2006-11-14T14:30:00.000-08:00

Brutal Fuckin Honesty Disclosure: This entry will have little or nothing to do with sports. It is much more likely to focus on personal, narcissistic concerns. File under "posts I write for myself, because the alternative would be for me to harp on them ceaselessly until my wife leaves me." Take it or leave it. Read it or don't.

I am really beginning to question whether I have it: whatever it is that allows one to make it from day-job desk jockey who writes on his own time, to someone who dedicates his life to the trade. I am not sure I have whatever Maurice Manning had when he sent away a chapbook of poetry to Southeastern MFA programs, hoping someone would take a chance on him, let alone whatever Jimmi Santiago Bacca had to make it from life-long failure, to poet icon; whatever Bill Simmons had that allowed him to struggle from an unemployed cult-web-hero to a writer so well revered that it has actually become popular now to hate him, or whatever Will Leitch had that allowed him to go from being a self-effacing so-pathetic-its-cute blogger, to being king of the Underworld, as ESPN would have it. It's not that this is the goal, per se, and in my own personal world, something more akin to what Maurice Manning has done with his life, sounds ultimately more fulfilling, and more in-line with my own goals, than watching hours of TiVo and writing about my favorite teams or finding compromising pictures of College Football QBs on the internet. In fact, I've been reading alot of Leitch's original blog and I'd venture to say if he had his druthers, he'd be doing something that requires a little more insightful creativity, and a little less rumor-milling, and humor-pandering. And judging by Simmons' recent hints at retiring from Page 2 for a career in film-writing, it seems that his aspirations reach for slightly more intellect as well. But I digress.

The thing is, I really cannot downplay the significant toll that the 9-5 takes on one's ability to create, to formulate thoughts, cohesively draw them together, and make something entirely original, or at least consciously aware of its precedents, and yet aiming for something unique. This is not to say it is impossible, nor is it to say that my job is particularly draining. It's not. There is no complaint here, but rather, perhaps unadultarated honesty. Perhaps I am just not that dedicated, or perhaps my well has been tapped. Perhaps--I am horrified to say--a reading of a prize-winning short story at an awards banquet in college, is as far as this alleyway goes. Perhaps I don't have what ever it takes to make it from that (fairly common) level of output, to the level to which I once aspired. Perhaps, I don't have what it takes to say, "sure I like my job, and sure, my office is a peaceful place, but I don't want to spend my life researching other people's accomplishments, or pretending to research other people's accomplishments while I putz around on friends' and acquaintances' blogs. I want other people to research my accomplishments." It is an ugly thing to admit, I suppose, and terribly narcissistic, that my goal is to know that I have left some kind of legacy. And I am not talking about 4 or 5 penguin classics on a shelf, or even one great poem read from obscure poetry collections by those in the know (though I wouldn't complain about these things.) Rather, I am talking about looking back at my work, or having others look back at my work, and feel that it was an actual contribution to an era of writing, that it was an origina; voice of that era, or that it at least was unique to its time, and honest to its author. I am not so sure I have what it takes to accomplish that task with sincerity. To write--and to make it a priority to write--honestly about what this is I am going through, whatever this is to be 24 in America, in this America, or at least my version of this America. To drive myself further into debt trying just to make it writing about an indebted generation. Or do I cut myself off from everything that is involved in a morning commute, a rushed cup of coffee, and headphones in the office, when really it is the commute, the coffee, and the headphones that define my entire experience in this universe right now?

I woke up today in my new condo, next to my new wife, and with my new dog. I went to my old job, stared at my old computer screen, and read through emails from old friends. I started the day within the same five minutes I start everyday, more-or-less (7:27-7:32) then checked my email for MFA info, and to see what friends had to say, and looked at the same 4 websites I look at each morning, in order: espn.com, cnn.com, popmatters.com, deadspin.com. I spent my day fluctuating between researching book entrants for my job (Brandon Webb, Bobby Knight, Manny Acta, Daisuke Matsuzaka) and checking my email, or looking at random websites. I ate a salad for lunch, alone. I left as soon as I could, drove home into the overcast city, walked my dog and came home to a quiet house. Wondered, what the fuck am I doing? I know. I know. I can't complain about the new house. I can't complain about being married to a woman who honestly I would have no business picking up at a bar in the city if we were strangers and met there this weekend. I have no right to complain about the dog, even though in a fit of temper he ran into the lot across the street, got a shard of glass in his foot, and is now running around with his feet in bandages and a giant cone on his head. Nah, I can't complain about all of that. And I can't really complain about my job, which at times is frustrating, but at the very least is an honest way to make a buck while reading about sports-related news half the time.

But, to borrow a phrase from 34% of broadcasted sporting events, this "wasn't the way I drew it up." I can't recall the last time I sat with a cup of coffee, or a cold beer, a pen and a journal and just threw my thoughts onto paper. In fact, most of my writing these days is done in moments of random inspiration, rushed into Word format or onto my blog (usually just depending on whether the creative output is sports-related, or intellectual) while looking over my shoulder in the office. This is the first moment I have spent on my own writing, and all I can think about is how hard it has become to write, to find inspiration, to feel the need to purge something haunting, sick, vile, wonderful, or inspiring. How--if I could just afford to, mentally, and financially, stop working--maybe I would have that time...but then what would there be to write about? I have looked to every corner for inspiration, to poetry, to music, to film. And then I found myself putzing around on Leitch's old site and came across this. First of all, it is refreshing to see someone who has made it, speaking in a voice totally lacking in confidence. I am not sure how close Leitch's mindset was when he wrote this to that of my own right now, but it sure seems like he is questioning his own motivation and determination. Secondly, it points to a much larger reality here: there are thousands, no, probably millions of people out there trying to make it in one artisistic fashion or another, and finding themselves increasingly frustrated with failed attempts at recognition, or worse: the paralysis of self-consciousness, which tells us we aren't worthy of aiming for such lofty goals. "Not quite good enough. Haven't quite got it. Try the 9-5." But what I love most about Leitch's post, is, he is willing to admit that for him the goal is a legacy, in his case, some kind of notereity, and he is willing to expose himself to all of the cynicism that is certain to garner. And yet, he doesn't give a shit, because he knows the trial he is going through is one that pushes his limits, and he wants a reward for that. And sure, with twenty-twenty hindsight, it is easy to see how this youthful arrogance is now obfuscated by his success, and these proclomations come across as noble determination as opposed to idealism at best, and self-seriousness at worst. But who cares if that is one of Leitch's faults, and who cares if Leitch exposes a desire in this post that is dangerous for the creative mind to expose. I find it hard to believe that anyone creating ANYTHING doesn't hope in their deepest heart-of-hearts, that they garnish some recognition for it. I don't think anyone writes, or paints, or creates music, for their creation to be blown away in the wind, or burned, and sent heavenwards, as some type of spiritual connection to be made eternally with and for themselves, and never for others.

I don't know what is going to become of my writing. I don't know if it is even good enough to get me into an MFA, if it is orginal enough for me to make it as a viable published writer, or if it is just crap meant to fill journals, be hashed out at my kids birthdays and weddings, read at my funeral when I die toiling away in futility. I don't pretend that my writing is anything spectacularly unique, or that I don't need a hell of alot more focus, time, and probably luck to make whatever I write any more worthy of critical success than the shit you find scribbled in any other 20-somethings journals, or on any one's blog. I also refuse pretend that I don't want it to be something bigger than it is, that publishing once or twice every few months in small-circulation poetry journals is satisfaction enough for me. I know for sure I have the stubborn pererverance it takes to try, and try, and fail, and try again. I just don't know that I necessarily have within my writers' soul whatever it is that all that trying is aiming to accomplish. I don't care in the end if I look back and say, "well I did my best and failed" because I don't want to ever admit my best is a failure. But maybe it is. Still, I don't care if it makes me cocky, brash, or a downright self-obsessed prick to believe that this can't be so. And I don't give a shit if it makes me narcisstic to want to want to end this post right now, and write something that isn't written entirely for me (and the five other people who started reading this...and perhaps two or three who have made it this far.) I don't care what it makes me, that I take it upon myself to pour a cup of coffee, find somewhere quiet and write. I don't care at all what you think about me, and what I write. Only I do care...tremendously.

On Coaches Long Gone, and Vindication NOW!

2006-11-12T19:17:00.000-08:00

Brother, can you spare a dime?

Well that was a little bit anti-climactic. The Jets beat the patriots for the firt time in eight tries in the quagmire that was Foxboro Stadium, today. And well, to be perfectly honest, I am not really sure how. Nobody played particularly well, outside of one great catch by Jericho Cotchery. I guess Mangini coached pretty well, but basically, I think the Jets won for two reasons: Brady's o-line left him exposed way too often (some credit should go to the Jets D line for that) and Bill Belichick sort of seemed like he was just in a rush to dry out his sweatsuit, win or lose. (Seriously, can we all chip in and buy this guy some new gear? I know the stupid rules in the NFL stipulate he has to wear liscensed team gear, but outside of wearing this I really can't imagine the dude rocking anything more obnoxious than the fupafying sweat suit.) I don't really know what I expected the firt win against the Patriots in forever to feel like. I didn't think I'd be cracking open champagne bottles or anything, but I certainly thought I would be pumped up, and I also thought it would be one of those games, as they say, where "the team with the ball last wins." Instead, I was just wondering aloud why the hell they had to lose to the friggin' Browns to weeks ago. Because had they won that game, I would be legitimately wondering on this blog, and in the ear of anyone willing to listen, if the Jets might just be a bona fide team. But they can't be. Too inconsistent. Essentially, this game was a gift from Bill Belichick. A weak after John Madden questioned where the Pats run game was, Belichick seemed determined to prove to John and others that he really didn't need it. The game started with Corey Dillon running downhill on the Jets pitiful run D, and ended with Belichick inexplicably calling pass play after pass play, despite the fact that Brady couldn't find any semblance of timing. Other than a big day out of CrazyEyes Caldwell basically nobody on the Patriots seemed interested in playing the game. If this blog is a bit boring and contrite, well, so was the game. I am still trying to figure out how the Jetties won that game. I mean, it isnt like they deserved to lose. But they didn't really dedserve to win. All in all, I am reserving judgment and/or predictions on this team until after I see what they can do with the Bears on Sunday.

Dice-K and the 42Million Dollar Conversation-Starter

It is expected that some time today the official announcement will be made that the Red Sox won the bidding for Japanese Gyroballer, Daisuke Mastsuzaka. The winning bid, just for the rights to talk to Matsuzaka's agent (Scott Boras) was supposedly 42 mil. This is absurd. I am not going to get all righteous and say that this is Yankees-baseball, and that winning this way is less satisfying than winning the way that the A's and Minnesota win (with actual talent evaluation, and trade analysis) but I am a little disappointed. I mean, I could personally care less how John Henry spends his money, and theoretically, as long as the Sox stay under the cap, they are playing "fair." But A) this is an ABSURD amount of money to change hands just for the right to talk to a guy who's never pitched in the Majors. and B) it is quite frankly more fun to root for a guy like Liriano (especially when you got him in a trade for AJ Pierzinsky) than it is to root for a guy when you team pays more than some teams payrolls just to start the conversation. I think the guy has nasty stuff (from his numbers, from what I can track down on Youtube, and from the WBC start I saw in February) so I look forward to rooting for him in a Sox uniform. I'm just not convinced this was the best use of 42 million dollars. Then again, as some poster on SoSH pointed out, that's really only Carl Pavano money, so I shouldn't complain.

A Red State You Can Celebrate

2006-11-10T05:52:00.000-08:00

I have been trying all morning to think of one of those "simmons-esque" real-life analogies, or even other sports analogies for what is going on in the great state of New Jersey right now with Rutgers Football being in the national spotlight. I need to say that again: with Rutgers football being in the national spotlight! For the life of me, I can't come up with anything. The closest I can come up with is something that is just so Jersey that I am not even sure people outside of Jersey will understand it: see, in almost every town in New Jersey there is the story of one guy (or gal) from that town who went on to make it huge. In Jersey City it is Queen Latifah. And, literally, almost everybody from that town, even though they probably dumped on and/or ignored said person, now feels vindicated that the person made it huge, and feels like they have a right to celebrate for that person, live vicariously through them, point fingers at everyone else and say "I told you so." Look, this is by no means to say that Jersey is some ghetto from which springs one or two blessed souls, who make it against the odds. That's just not the case. But it is the nature of being from a place that nobody else truly understands that we should want to celebrate when our people make it big, and are accepted and heralded by the outside world. I mean, it is odd to be from a place that is immediately outside of Manhattan (did you pick that up from last night's broadcast?!) and yet to have the rest of America treat you like you are from a different planet (and a smelly, cockroach-infested one, at that.) And it is odder still that being from this place just naturally puts one on the defensive. I imagine in a different way it is like being from West Virginia, and having to prove day-in-and-day-out that you are not the product of incest, and in fact, nobody from West Virginia really is.

What's odd is the image of New Jersey that has been broadcast by everyone from ESPN (New Yorkers don't know what a Rutgers is) to Chris "Mad Dog" Russo, proclaiming he was broadcasting from the hinterlands in the Rutgers parking lot yesterday, while offensive and annoying, really isn't all that far from the truth. People who aren't from here just don't understand what it is like to deal with the constant crap you get for it. I went to college in Oregon for a year and actually had a professor tell me she was heartened I made it to college coming from New Jersey (even though NJ has the highest graduation rate of any public school system in the country! and even though I graduated from a private school, where both of my parents were educators.) I then went to school in Pennsylvania, where 30 % of the students had to over-embelish how great Jersey is just to detract from the constant barrage of negativity being bounced off us by people from "superior" states like Connecticut, and Massachusetts. One time, in an elevator at the Boston Hyatt, I got into a screaming match with a random stranger who insisted Princeton was not in New Jersey. She was wearing a Harvard sweatshirt! And I have sat at a barstool in Hoboken and listened to a recently transplanted Connecticut girl tell me "Jersey is trash. I hate this place. I hate everyone here. I can't wait to leave." She was from the suburbs of that heavenly city to the North, Hartford. Now she is engaged to a Jersey native, Rutgers grad, and just brought property in North Bergen. Funny how people's perceptions change when they give this place a chance.

I feel the need to dispel some sports-analogies that will inevitably surface over the next few days as the sportsradio-types and the Gene Worhfbfshdskys of the world will certainly try to make parallels about this program because they don't want to actually research the program. 2006 Rutgers football is NOT:

The Cubs--the Cubs won some championships, started losing, have always been fairly competitive, and yet just can't seem to win the big games. Rutgers never played any big games before last night, never won any championships, and NEVER sold out their stadium the way the Cubs do on a yearly basis.

The 1995 Northwestern Football Wildcats-- The Wildcats were a team on the rise for a few years prior to 1995 under Gary Barnett. Their record may not have shown it, but that was due to schedule more than anything else. People saw Northwestern coming, and when they opened up the season beating Notre Dame it was the end of an era for the Golden Domers, and the beginning of an era for Northwestern. They played an annually brutal schedule, which they struggled through for a few years before rising to national prominence in 1995. Were a good team, who won some big games and lost one big game during the season And then got shellacked in the Rose Bowl. Nobody saw Rutgers coming. They got screwed in scheduling becuase nobody outside of the Big East in big conferences will schedule the Big East for fear of weakening their schedule, resulting in a weaker schedule for Big East teams. Its unfortunate, unfair, and they will not play in the championship game because of it.

The 2006 Detroit Tigers-- Heard this one on NYC radio on Tuesday and Boston Radio this morning as I was checking in on Hot Stove stuff (still no word on Matsuzaka.) Man does this one piss me off. This plays directly into the "hinterlands" image that I am talking about. The idea that poor little Jersey is in despair and needs Rutgers to put us on the map. Mularkey. The Tigers won championships, the Tigers sucked for a brief while, and the Tigers made a valiant, and lucky run to the World Series and lost. Rutgers sucked for a LONG long time, and suddenly (but not inexplicably, more on that later) are a National contender. Plus Detroit is literally in economic despair. Jersey is doing alright for itself, outside of Newark, Trenton, and Camden.

If we must make one of these stupid sports analogies, try this one: The Jamaican Bobsled team, but the movie version, where they are actually competitive. That's right, it's absurd, silly, and nonsensical for New Jersey football to win over the hearts of non-believers, it is happening suddenly and happily, and it is giving its homeland all kinds of good cheer, but soon enough, surely, it will be a footnote.

Two fabricated storylines about this game that I am already tired of hearing about:

1. The Louisville offense sputtered, the off-sides call was unfortunate because it wouldn't have affected the kick (Kirk Herbstreit) and Rutgers doesn't deserve to be taken seriosuly because their offense struggled for a half (argued by the same folks who said Louisville and WVU shouldnt be taken seriously because they were an all-offense brand of football.)
2. Greg Schiano going to Miami?

Allow me to address these people: shut up. Louisville's offense sputtered because the second best defense in the country finally got sharp, ran their LBs all over the Louisville backfield, and pressured Louisville's biggest weapon, Brohm (pronounced, BROWM, apparently.) They are a different brand of football than Ohio State, sure. They rely on solid running, rarely-utilized but effective passing, and unbelievable defense. If they were an NFL team, people would be going nuts over them. Remember when Rice got hot in the fourth quarter? That's what Rutgers Football has looked like all year. And Kirk, you have to be kidding me. Sprinting into the kickers field of vision before the snap isnt going to affect the play? A Linebacker dropping trou and taking a dump while the QB is calling an audible probably wouldn't affect the play either, but I am pretty sure you would see a flag. Off-sides is off-sides. It's a penalty. Sucks that it effected the way the game was decided, but had he blocked the kick after being off-sides, you'd be hollering injustice from the mountaintops, Kirk. And folks, Greg Schiano back to Miami?! Greg Schiano is on the way to making himself a legend in this state. Should he make Rutgers football relevant, and someday win a BCS title, he would be on par with Springsteen, Dick Vitale, James Gandolfini, and Jersey Mike's Subs. He has a chance to make his home state proud of a football program that was once a laughing stock, and is now on its way to being a National spotlight program. Why in the WORLD would he leave that for a program that was once a National powerhouse and is now well on its way to being a complete laughing stock? Take a seat at the diner booth, Greg. There's no sports-analogy for what you've given us. Others wouldn't understand. It's a Jersey thing.

Louisville Sluggers and Cliched Headlines

2006-11-09T11:29:00.000-08:00

The often-times intriguing SI writer (and friend of that Amish, Steroid-taking, Biker-guy) Austin Murphy, had yet another one of those, "Rutgers is a cute story" columns today. And while this was a lot less smug than most stories about the Knights, and while it is hard to complain about Rutgers (finally) deserving and getting some National Media attention, I have to cringe when I read the apparent condenscion that permeates so many of these articles. Sure alot of it is about the severe bias against the Big East, and I suppose much of that bias is earned. This is not the SEC or the Big Ten. However, I can't avoid thinking that the smarmy treatment Rutgers is getting, has to do with two things: 1. Rutgers football (and its athletics, in gerneral) has ranged from mediocre to atrocious for its entire history. 2. People hate New Jersey. So, in all of my infamy, I am making an effort to act as embassador of New Jersey, home of Rutgers, reaching out to the sports media types who find Rutgers and New Jersey to be some type of feel good story, as if we are Detroit, and RutgersFootball is somehow our Tigers.

Now let me be clear about something, to avoid the inevitable "Fair-weather" fan responses, I am an admittedly partial Bandwagon Rutgers fan. But so is everyone else from New Jersey and anyone who watches Rutgers. In the past there have been three times a year when I have found myself tracking down a sports bar, which would be showing Rutgers:

Their first game of the year (usually a tough loss)

Their "big" match-up in any given year (formerly Syracuse, more recently Miami, then WVU or Louisville...usually a blow-out.)

Whenever I was feeling depressed about Lehigh losing to Lafayette I would track down a Rutgers game to remind myself why I chose Lehigh over Rutgers (the academic discrepancy is really overblown. The partying discrepancy is not, plus even if Rutgers would probably beat Lehigh head-to-head year in and year out, Lehigh football played that 1-AA schedule, and winning is nice.)

And I would say, seeing Rutgers play 3 times a year before last year made me as close to a die-hard as this heretofore mockery of a football program has ever had. So there is plenty of room on this bandwagon, and judging by a comment from a friend earlier today, I think should Rutgers beat Louisville, the bandwagon is going to overflow. All are welcome, we are a nation in our early stages, we can't afford to discriminate.

While it is disappointing that, growing up in NJ, I didn't have a good football team to watch, there is nothing that drives me crazier than the negative perceptions of my home state that permeate EVERYTHING that people say about this state.

Here is what the average New Englander, or West Coaster knows about NJ: the 11 miles stretch of the turnpike that takes one from Newark Airport to Manhattan. An 11-mile stretch that, admittedly, features empty shipping container lots, a power plant, a stench of rotting garbage, and more empty factories than Dresden, 1946. It is a crummy part of the state, but if those people ventured less than a mile off the Turnpike in either direction, after they get out of Newark, they would be in two of the highest-demand real estate urban-renewal meccas in the North East (Jersey City and Hoboken) surrounded by plenty of metrosexual men and women walking toy-poodles, people with bad hair-cuts and tight jeans drinking huge cups of coffee, and businessmen with loosened ties drinking at corner bars. In other words, these New England travllers or Wayward Westerners would think they were in their mythical land of Oz, MANHATTAN! Were they to get turned around and end up going West on 78, they would find themselves in Somerset County, the seventh wealthiest county in America. By state, New Jersey (9 counties) has the third most of the 100 wealthiest counties, losing to only Colorado and Virginia. As an added bonus, we don't almost elect racist morons (I can't hate on Colorado, it's a nice state, and my buddy, James, would thump me.)

What's that you say? You don't worry about things like county income, or sprawling farm-replica mansions, with Bentleys parked in the yard...you are more of the bohemian type? Let me tell you about the abundance of art galleries in Lambertville, Summit, Morristown, Jersey City, Ocean Township. And did you know that hippy-poet you really dug in highschool, Allen Ginsberg, was from Patterson, NJ? Surely you were aware that your favorite working-class liberal troubador, Bruce Springsteen was the boss of Asbury Park.

If hiking is your thing, we have mountains, if the ocean is your thing, the shore. If you are the woodsy-type we have the Pine Barrens, if you are the city type, take a "bridge or tunnel" to the greatest city in the world? Love sports? We have two NFL football teams, an NBA team, an NHL team, and even MLS. Prefer movies? More theaters per sq. mile than any state in the Union. Love women? Well, not all of them are like that.

And here is what most people know about Rutgers (or are certain to find in tonight's ESPN Broadcasr of some stupid segment distraction during the middle of a significant play) THE STATE UNIVERSITY OF NEW JERSEY:

Located in New Brunswick, NJ (they play their games in Piscataway)
Originally founded by Henry Rutgers as Queens College, 1766 (yes you read that right.)
Played in the first-ever intercollegiate Football game (a 6-4 DRUBBING of those nerds from Princeton)
Famous Alumni: James Gandolfini ("Tony Saprano!! How approporiate is that?!" they will surely say) as well as Mario Batali (the fat cook with the funny shoes) and the chick that played one of the Chicks on Sex in the City. Dick Vitale once coached basketball there!

What they won't mention:

The most famous alumni (before HBO warped our minds) is actually Football player, activist, politician, singer, artist, Paul Robeson.
Top ten medical school, top twenty law school, one of the premiere agriculture schools in the country.
Faculty with more Guggenheim Fellows, Carnegie Honorees, Fullbright scholars, and MacArthur fellows than any in the Northeast.
Most of the MRE's ingested by our Troops are designed at Rutgers!
1-in-3 girls has an STD...

So, while it's not quite heaven! it certainly is deserving of a little more credit than it gets nationally, particularly among sports fans. I'm not going to argue that Rutgers deserves to get to the National championship, although the unlikely road is well-mapped, here. And I am not saying New Jersey is the most glorious state in the union (I am open to arguments.) I'm just saying the anti-Jersey dogma is getting a little tired. We're not perfect, but we're doing alright here in Jersey, come on in, the water is fine...just, uhm, make sure you use the Brita.

RU 36, LU 26

I Cheered When Humphrey Was Chosen, My Faith in the System Restored

2006-11-08T08:06:00.000-08:00

But I'm Glad all the Commies Were Thrown Out of the A.F.L. C.I.O. Board

Times like these, it's hard not to temper my excitement with thoughts like the ones that must have been running through Phil Ochs' mind when he wrote the song, "Love Me, I'm a Liberal." Don't get me wrong: I am whole-heartedly excited--no, that's hyperbole--I am tremendously relieved by the results of yesterday's elections. Yet, I can't help but balance that enthusiasm with a sense of wonderment: what, if anything, has really changed over the past 48 hours? On the one hand, the result of the midterms has, indeed, been a "referrendum" on the Iraq War, and Conservative domestic policy (in case you didn't get that idea from the coverage last night) and the message is clear: Americans are looking for a change. But on the other hand, I can't--even for a minute--fool myself into believing that the change people are looking for is a radical one. This was no referrendum to reallocate our tax dollars from shedding innocent blood in Iraq, to protecting innocent people in Darfur. The "No Child Left Behind" (because they're all being pushed back) act was not an attacking point for the Democrats. A good portion of those Democrats elected are pro-life, and suspiciously mum on Stem-Cell Research (for instance the Senate results in Pennsylvania; in congress, Indiana, North Carolina, etc...) And it even seems that a number of candidates, like maybe-Senator Webb from VA., Congressman-elect Shuler from N.C., and Congresswoman-elect Boyda from KS., are recent "converts" from the G.O.P. Some, like Boyda, openly admit, that they swithced parties because they thought the Democrats spoke to the moderates and centrist Conservatives. Boyda even distanced herself from the Democratic party by refusing some of their funding. Like many of the other Southern take-overs, the votes that carried her seem to have been as much a stamp of approval on her religious beliefs, as her politics...neither of which I can identify with, personally. Although, unlike recent Democrat-cum-lately, Tim Mahoney, she has never described herself as a "fundamental Christian."

Of course, I am excited about some huge strides in social equality: enter the first lady Speaker of the House; the SECOND-ever African American Governor in History; and the FIRST-ever Muslim Congressman (who ran the most honorable campaign of the election...turns out Muslims can fight fair, while Christians, seemingly, cannot.) I am less excited about the lack of social issues that Democrats platformed on. Is the Iraq war a significant issue? Outside of Connecticut, it obviously is. But is it so important that issues like Labor, Education, Abortion, and Health Care, get swept under the rug? Well, outside of Connecticut, apparently it is.

Lieberman campaigned on many of those "non-war" issues and won. However, even this morning as Don Imus asked him when he would realize how idiotic his stance on Iraq is, Lieberman stumbled around a bit before mumbling, well, we need to get together and think about how to approach this, but we can't just 'cut-and-run.'" Ah, no, Joe, we can't. Wouldn't want to be flip-floppers would we? I have given Lieberman grief, and while I find it unfortunate that he had to rely on the spiteful votes of registered republicans, like my in-laws, to win, I give him credit, and certainly consider it a victory for the party. I certainly don't trick myself, the way certain people do, into believing that Lieberman's victory was any less a victory for the Democrats, than a party victory for someone like Webb.

Indeed, they are both victories for a certain wing of the Democratic party--lets call them the NeoLibs--a group that wins because they are about us centric as possible, able to float between the parties, and certainly not likely to initiate radical change in policy. Will they aim to "change direction in Iraq and the War on Terror?" Sure. Will this result in an effort to change policy, and begin troop withdrawal, or to cut back the breaches of civil rights afforded by the Patriot Act? We will see about that. But you want to talk about improvements in innercity education? Pressuring the United Nations to intervene in Sudan? Talking Bush out of polarizing politics around "fringe" issues like whether or not two dudes who love each other should be afforded the same right to marry as Britney Spears and Kevin Federline? Don't hold your breath. Ironic, huh? That middle-American Christianity was powerful enough to save the sanctity of Marriage from the invasion of the gays, but couldn't seem to do anything to save it from the embarassing spoil of the Wal-Mart CD King and Queen?

I guess the point is that while The Nation, and DailyKos are able to blindly celebrate this as a huge step forward for American liberalism, and while more radically left bloggers are crying into their coffee having lost the party, I am going to wait in limbo. Speaking tempermentally, I think the results speak for themselves: Democrats, after decidedly shifting to the middle, have gained the faith of the American voter. The question now becomes: over the next two years, can they pull that center back towards the left, or are we trending towards a Lieberman/Webb ticket in '08? (update: There goes Montana, control of the Senate looking promising. AND THERE GOES RUMSFELD! A little late, but I will take it.)

On the Christian Republicans I Love

I haven't wanted to--or needed to--discuss the travesty that was the '06 Red Sox in a while, but the third best season of the four baseball seasons has started. Y'know..you have your Spring Training season (fourth best, unless you are there with 3 or 4 of your buddies in a hotel with a bathtub full of ice and Coors Light) and you have your regular season (the best, unless it sucks completely like it did this year), your post-season (second best if your team makes it, best if they win) and lastly, your hot-stove season (consistently third best, always blown out of proportion.)

According to my thorough research and statistical breakdowns scrupulous enough for the Bill James handbook, I deduce that each HS season, the average team makes exactly 4 non-descript transactions that make minor differences down the line, and 0.6-2.6 major transactions (rounded up to 3 for upper-echelon teams like the Sox.) This being the case, I have decided to play GM ('cause that current bum hasn't won us a World Series in two years) and draw up my plan of attack for which 4 fairly average (but perhaps season-altering) moves I would make, as well as the three big-time moves that could make the Red Sox an immediate contender in the hardest league in Baseball (y'know, World Series results notwithstanding.)

Doesn't Matter if You're Minor...

1. Let the Mets overpay Loretta, Pedroia slides in at Second and RESIGN Cora and Gonzalez. Here's something I always hear, and frankly, I don't get it: "we need to get more production out of our (fill in the blank) position." Inevitably, even if the Red Sox lead the league in runs, they will have a cold-streak, and with this double-play combo in place, the automated response will be "we need more production from the middle infielders." Look, Gonzo was the best defensive Short-Stop in the Majors last year. Pedroia is an excellent defensive 2B. If there is anywhere you can afford to sacrifice production for defensive prowess, it is your middle infield. And relax, I will produce some runs elsewhere.

2. Forget Zito, forget Schmidt, and PLEASE forget Mulder, Suppan, and Wright. Let the Mets and Yankees outbid the moon for Matsuzaka, and hope and pray he isn't an interleague-switch bust. Sign "Wicked" Gil Meche, instead. He will cost you less then half of what the other guys cost, and with the right run support, will win you almost as many games.

3. Mike Lowell and money for Scott Linebrink. The Pads have shown interest in Lowell, but don't want to pay him. Eat half his salary, and get a bona fide reliever in return.

4. Post for, and sign to a two-year contract, Akinori Iwamura, a power-hitting Japanese infielder. Could be a bust, would likely be a nice bat off the bench, just might be a long-term solution at third.

Or Major...

1. Sing Free agent Carlos Lee, as a primary 1B with opportunities to platoon in the OF. Most days Lee plays 1B, Youkilis 3B. Lee is a mediocre defensive Outfielder with arguably the best bat in FA. He wants to play for a contender, and hitting behind Ramirez and Papi and in front of WilyMo, and with the staff the Sox have next year (especially under my tenure as GM) this team is a contender. He can play 1B for that chance. Some days of course, Manny will need to DH, Carlos can handle Left, Ortiz can play first. The possibilities of match-ups and resting are endless.

2. Goodbye Trot, Goodbye Foulke, goodbye Mirabelli. Hello high-risk, high-reward, high-incentives contract for Eric Gagne.

3. Sign Roger Clemens, to a one year deal for 19 Million. The amount is huge, the risk is existent, the luxury tax is inevitable. So too is the amount of money to be made on Yawkey Way selling Clemens Jerseys again. Also, I hear you make a pretty penny when you win the World Series.

Because we have a decent chance to win the WS, now that I have just built a favorite with

This Staff:

SP Co-Ace Curt Schilling
SP Co-Ace Roger Clemens
SP Ace-in-the-hole Josh Beckett
SP Young Stud Jonathan Papelbon*
SP Steady Anchor Wicked Gil Meche

Long R/Spot SP (with occasinal Six man rotation to rest older arms) Tim Wakefield
Long R/ Emergency SP Crazy Hoo-Lee-in Tavarez
Middle R Mike Timlin
Middle R Manny del Carmen
Set-Up Craig Hansen
Closer Eric Gagne*

*If things go terribly wrong you slide Papelbon back into the Closing Position and don't lose ALL that much with Wake in the Rotation.

And this lineup:

1. Coco Crisp (the OBP guys won't like this, but when CoCo gets more consistent, his speed can be damaging on base.)
2. Kevin Youklis (a defacto OBP lead-off guy when CoCo can't get on, a legit contact hitter and pitch-burner, when CoCo can.)
3. Big Papi
4. Manny Ramirez
5. Carlos Lee
6. Wily Mo (imagine going through these four in a late inning game with no outs?!)
7. Jason Varitek (batting Seventh, where he BELONGS!)
8. Alex Gonzalez
9. Dustin Pedroia

Bench: Cora, Murphy, Akinori Iwamura, George Kottaras (C), and Carlos Pena.

Is this a more expensive team than last year. Yes. Is it even comparable to where the Yankees payroll will be next year? No. And it is a team that is getting younger. Is there something I am missing here? As I see it, this makes all the sense in the world. Bring on October, it's time for an '06-Election-proportion power shift at the top of the AL East.

Hear All the Bombs Fade Away!!

2006-11-06T10:15:00.000-08:00

Alright ya'll. I am pretty sure that the five people who read this blog are all good conscious citizens. But dont forget to vote tomorrow. If you dont vote, then you lose your right to complain about our governments ineptitude, or celebrate its successes. Don't care who you vote for. Just vote. God Bless, and as Borat says: "I hope for George bush to drink the blood of every man, woman, and child in Iraq."

--Resident Proselytizer

Think it's Gonna Be A Long Long Time Till Touchdown

2006-10-31T05:12:00.000-08:00

Rocket Ma-a-a-an?

It takes me two days to respond to the debacle that was Jets football on Sunday. This is why I would never make a good Jets blogger for serious. I am just way too attached, and consumed by the trials and tribulations of this team. I celebrate wins for too long after they have ended, and analyze losses as if there is, or should be, a logical reason why the Jets can play with the best team in the AFC until the last play of the game, and lose to one of the worst teams on the last play of the game. I convince myself that the NFL is plotting against the Jets when they refuse to review a blown call that cost the Jets at least a shot at winning the game (apparently it was unreviewable, which is baffling, as well) instead of admitting that, officially, this team "is what we thought they were," to kill a phrase. They are "mediocre", "rebuilding", "young", "raw", "in-transition," "frustrating." Whatever catch-phrase you want to use, they are a below average team, which is going to win just enough games to miss out on the best of the draft's Running backs, pick a "promising" linemen or safety, who is a career disappointment, and next year we can begin the 6-10 or 7-9 process all over again. They are what they are: the Jets. And we can tie our hopes to whatever star we want: new coaching staff, new defensive scheme, new GM. But here's one thing that has remained consistent for this Jets team for as long as I have been alive: the guy who touches the ball most has always been average, inconsistent, and frustratingly prone to crippling series, quarters, games...oh, and inuries.

Here comes a jealousy tainted, bitter, "I-hate-the-Patriots" rant for you, folks: want to know why the Pats have been a contender for five years running, no matter who they release, or refuse to resign, or trade away? TOM BRADY. And not just because he is good (maybe even great) but because he is consistent, and, here's the occum's razor that never gets mentioned: he is always friggin' healthy. I am not rooting for the guy to get injured but seriously, why is it that Tom Brady never gets hit at an awkward angle, or ruptures a disc in his back having circus-act sex with Bridget Moynihan? Why can't it happen to THEM, just ONCE?! I don't care which national magazine wants to slight the best player in the NFL this century (because that's what he is) there is no denying that the guy does what no Jets quarterback has been able to do for my entire lifetime: win, stay out of his own way, Bang Bridget Moynihan and stay out of the friggin' OPERATING ROOM!! There has to be a reason why, for the past 5 years, Chad Pennington has been given the benefit of the doubt by every single coach, sportswriter, and player who has walked through the Jets locker room. Other than his good-old-boy, straight-shooter personality, I can't seem to find one. He has always had flashes of greatness, sure. But just as often he has thrown up logic-defying bumbling-out-of-the-gate starts like the one on Sunday. One of his interceptions honestly looked like it had to have been tipped at the line (BUT IT WASN'T!) It floated like a pass thrown between two kids in the parking lot during tailgates: high, arching, wobbly, and aimless. It landed in the Cleveland Cornerback's bread basket like a gift. Tom Brady could have thrown a better prayer with his toes. Unbelievable. But here is the thing. The Jets will keep tapping that well, and they will do it until we are "mathematically" eliminated from the Playoffs, and maybe even then, keep giving Chad the nod. News flash, people: WE ARE MATHEMATICALLY eliminated. It's new math: it's called deductive reasoning. And I am apparently the only Jets fan smart enough to apply this shit. Here is what I deduce: we have a good but young coaching staff; we have a young defense learning a new scheme that would give up 150 yards rushing to my grandmother on a cold day when here arthritis is acting up; we have no viable running back (look Leon Washington is a nice little kid, with a running back-sounding name, who might average 50 yards a game in the CFL or something, lets not get too excited about one good game against the Lions); we have decent but not great wide-receivers (when do we convert Justin Miller into a WR and let McCareins go?); and, here's the clincher, a TERRIBLY predictable QB. You know what's predictable about Chad? He is inconsistent to the point of sheer frustration, he has, and always will have, a Johnny Damon arm, and he is, and always will be INJURED!!! We know what we have with Pennington: a guy who is usually smart enough to win you 6 or 7 games, but never good enough to win you the games that he needs to, ie the Patriots game, the Colts game, the Browns game. And make no mistake: this was a must win. If the Jets were were going to be a playoff contender they were going to roll through this game, go into the bye week 5-3, and at least give New England a fight on the 11th. Now, you can chalk up three straight losses (yes, Houston will beat them) and all of those games should be great opportunities to see what we have in Kellen Clemens. But because the Jets aren't mathematically eliminated, you can expect to see Chad. Which means you can expect: 3 interceptions, 2 dropped snaps, and absolutely no rhythm against New England (at which point the Jets media coverage will just start to catch up to what the smart fans already know, and question if Chad is hurt and if there might be a better option on our bench) followed by a deceptively good outing (a lot of dump passes, that his recievers turn into big gains, thus padding his numbers, in a loss against Minnesota) and just when the media and fans are coming back to coddling everyones favorite southern blondie, we will get another Browns-type game against the Texans. And three weeks from now--three weeks after we would have been able to test our young QB against a good team, a decent team, and a bad team, three weeks of wasting our opportunity to find out if we need to draft another QB--the coup will finally begin en masse. By the time Clemens gets to take a snap the rest of the team will have quit in frustration, and the Jets will go into next year with a big question mark under center. Most likely to fill that hole? A ("finally healthy!!") Chad Pennington. Fucking gross. At the beginning of this year, I said I'd rather see a 1-15 team with signs of progress than a 6-10 team that storms out of the gate, only to slowly deteriorate throughout the season. Why would I have expected anything but the latter?!

Look Chad, I rooted for you when you took the reigns from Vinny. The thing is, you were young, you were promising, and you were an unknown, while Vinny was getting older, getting erratic, looking gimpy, and prone to single-handedly losing games with his random stinkers. Sound familiar? Well I rooted for a change then, and I am rooting for one now. In the last three years you haven't won a single game I didnt expect you to win, you have lost a few I never imagined you could, and through it all, I have NEVER ONCE felt fully comfortable with you behind Center, and over the past two years plus you have been obviously injured yet continued to stubbornly put yourself before the team. So go take up somebody else's cap room. Go be someone else's constant worry, someone else's injured enigma. It's time for Kellen Clemens to become our new whipping boy. Apparently we've worn out the hide on the one we've got now.

Just my Job Five Days a Week

I have gotten to the point at work where I wouldn't be surprised if I caught myself in the middle of handing in my two weeks one of these mornings. Basically, ever since my wedding, I have been slowly phased out of the sports aspect of my job, because there is "more important" stuff that they need the experienced researchers on, which is total BS, becasuse now they have some kid (who honestly doesn't know who the Eagles QB is) updating football and basketball, and I am working on MLB, College Sports, and Motor Sports (no joke) and have less and less of my day dedicated to it, and more and more of my day dedicated to cleaning up crap that other people have soiled. And as I am in mid-rant about this my wife calls and tells me she got a promotion. I guess I can't complain. Maybe I will become a house-dad for the dog...

The house is coming along swimmingly. The office is complete. This is huge. The biggest problems with my old apartment went as follows: we had a futon instead of a couch because our living room was long and narrow, and I had ZERO space to write. Now we have a leather couch and I have an office. I went with blue and brown as my colors. It has the library feel without that stodgy green and gold that most home offices boast. I'm pretty pumped about this...nice bookshelves, oak desk, etc...might need a new flat-panel TV. Maybe. Started painting the living room this weekend. Phone and internet are active, cable on Friday. Starting to feel human again.

Gonna be High as a Kite by Then

Lots of celebration planned for this weekend. I have kitchen contractors, and the cable dude coming on Friday, so it will be a three day weekend. Friday Brian gets in and we will be taking in some visual arts at one of the sundry art galleries or museums in Manhattan, before meeting up with Slaz and old friend Andy, in Brooklyn for some beers, and a party at John's loft. Saturday, I will probably catch some football at Park Tavern, and then go to Brian and Dana's engagement party at night. Recover on Sunday. At least with the Bye-week, I can rely on Pennington not to throw any interceptions. Unless he decides to go out and play a charity game with the disabled. In which case, it should only be one or two.

(PRODUCT) Red Rain is Falling Down

2006-10-16T11:41:00.000-07:00

This weekend I was peeling through the NY Times magazine, when I came across some six-page Gap Ad spread, featuring Don Cheadle, Missy Elliot, Anton Apollo Ono and some others. What made this ad-spread unique is it clearly was trying to say something powerful about the typical bland clothes that the brand was marketing. They all came in a bold red color with (Red) written across random parts of the garment, and they were all the only article of clothing in the piece. The message was actually well translated by the art director of the shot. Before you read any background information on the clothes, you knew there was something significant to this brand. The little information provided at the end of the spread, gives you the idea that, yes, in fact, there is: All Red Products Are Designed to Help Eliminate AIDS in Africa. Their Motto: "Can a T-Shirt Change the World? This One Can."

Now, those two statements are really pretty bold claims for fashion to be making: that a product is designed to fight the deadliest disease in the world, and that a product can ultimately change the world. A quick visit to their website, of course, gives you a better idea of what they mean by "changing the world." "This isn't charity," it states, "this is a new way of doing business." Indeed, even when it comes to altruism in Twenty-First Century America, it is really all about that bottom line. As the co-founder (along with, who else, BONO!) of Product Red confirmed, this is all about making some money. Bobby Shriver (yes, that kind of Shriver) recently told the New York Times: "We want them (the brand-makers) to make money. We don't want anyone to be thinking, ‘I'm not making money on this thing,' because then we failed. We want people buying houses in the Hamptons based on this because, if that happens, this thing is sustainable." Hold on a second while I rub my eyes and read that again. Yeah, that's what he said. In order to "sustain" this thing, they have to feed on American's consumerism, trust American's to be more likely to "contribute" to a cause by purchasing a fashion statement; rather than actually contributing to a good cause; oh, and they need the profit sharing to pad the pockets of the good folks whose houses in the Hamptons could use a nice addition right now. Nevermind that, of the 190 bucks you spend on that Red Ipod Nanno, only 10 bucks are going to help the cause of actually fighting AIDS in Africa. The other $180? Straight towards building another fence around Bill Gates' Estate. The idea here people is to change something that has failed miserably (namely, American altruism) by splicing it with something that has succeeded inexplicably well (namely, consumerism...or to be blatant, the consistency of you, me, and everyone we know going out and buying over-priced crap that is made by underpaid children, and flashing it around like it is something to be proud of.)

Look, I don't have a problem with the resident voice of our generation (who actually isn't of our generation) pimping idealism out to young Americans for a good cause, for once. I suppose he is, in fact, trying to do something good. But I do hav a problem with a few things: Wouldn't all of the money that is being put towards building these folks homes on the Haptons, be better spent, I dunno..."Elimating Aids" as they claim is their goal. Why do we continue to talk about Bono as if he is a great human being (I know...I had to write an introduction to one of my company's books on why Bono and Bob Geldof were one of ten people who make a difference in the world.) The guy has used his celebrity for a lot of good causes, sure. But it hasn't stopped him from posing with some of the most genocidal leaders walking the face of this earth.

AND, Is it really a fair notion for the pimps of these product to assume that the only way to illicit charity from this generation is to offer them an ugly red tank-top in return? If so, I am ashamed of my generation. I suppose it worked with Yellow Bracelets, but for god's sake, people, are we really going to stand idly by, while a bunch of 40-to-50-something entrepreneurs get together and cater to the lowest common denominator of our stereotyped generation? Is buying dumb crap, and flashing that we are a part of the latest movement, really worth supporting people who take advantage of the diseased and dying citizens of the orpahned continent, just so they can afford new homes in the Hamptons?

Hey You. Twenty-something hipster, with the 60s-recall haircut. Unplug the Ipod. Put down the shopping bag, the 3-dollar coffee, and the unopened copy of White Noise and listen to me: You planning on buying that tank top for 56 bucks at the gap? Look, 28 of it goes to an organization that is dedicated to fighting AIDS, 28 of it goes to some GAP CEO's waterfront property at Sheepshead Bay. Do us all a favor. Take 50 of it, and donate it to AVERT.org. Then take the other six, and go buy yourself some beer. We all know thats what you young slackers spend your money on anyways, when you aren't spending it on tank-tops and Nanos.

Intentionally Walking Nap Lajoie (or cleaning out the desk blog)

2006-10-04T14:27:00.000-07:00

Ball One: Thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed and/or criticized my PopMatters piece. It was an imperfect work for sure, but I will get some better ones (and probably some worse ones) out in the near future, which some of you may enjoy more (or less.) Wow that was a meaningless sentence if ever I wrote one.

Ball Two: The marathon commuting continues. T-minus-10 days until we close. Oddly, I am looking forward to living in a condo with a kitchen under remodeling, no real furniture for a couple of weeks, and in need of tons of work. It has to be more enjoyable than waking up at hours when I often would have been coming home during my college years. Come to think of it...5:39 on a Wed. in Autumn...chances are I would have tapped the kegerator by now back in those good old days. There must be something worth drinking to this evening. I heard a rumor that hockey starts tonight, or something (really, I promise it is in there somewhere. Just dig around.)

Ball Three: The good news about living in Pburg for a couple weeks is I have been reading plenty. I plowed through the Sports Writing of the Year Anthology in two nights, and came away rather unimpressed. So unimpressed, in fact, i didn't bother to link it. I think they are under the impression with these yearly anthologies, that they can just cut and paste their favorite stuff. Nothing is cohesive, and few of it is going to be pertinent five years on. I mean, they talk about things like Teddy Bruschi's intensity more than they discuss, say, steroids. And Bill Plaschke has got to stop making appearances on Around the Horn. He is such an excellent writer--the rare good read in these things, each year--but his value is cheapened from the foolish things he says, and foolish people he is connected to, on that show.

Ball Four: Currently reading The Shape of Things to Come: Prophecy in American Voice--somebody has been reading his HG Wells--a perhaps curiosly titled book about the nature of America as a myth (the nation) and the reality of a divided America (as a conglomeration of individuals all living in one place, all bound by a couple pieces of paper written centuries ago.) It follows all kinds of texts (speeches, songs, movie, TV, literature, etc...) through the history of America in an effort to discover the true essence of what it is to be American, where we have succeeded in reaching our ideals, how we have often fallen short, and the future this portends. Really fascinating stuff, even if his writing is more-or-less just jumping from one person's words to another, rearely relying on much besides his own intellect to piece it all together. It is, thus far, the Bees Knees.

2006-10-02T05:28:00.000-07:00

Fuel for the Sodium Flares

Some notes on a particularly annoying Sunday:

If you read my post on TS you know by now that God is angry at me for not donating money to help build a church playground, and spending it instead on a five-team Parlay, that inexplicably involved both Daunte Culpepper and a pick against the Saints. I was right about the Patriots. That was the type of game they have made their reputation winning, and they thrive on it. They have one bad week, and are scheduled to play an overrated team, everyone writes them off for dead. They win. The Jets are proving that perhaps they are capable of a winning record, and yet they are going to lose as many painful games as they possibly can just to break my heart. Any time the spread in a Jets game is more than 7 points, take the Jets. They don't know how to lose without making it painfully close. Dallas is still a good team, and Tennessee is not. I don't care how shortly before a game their star WR overdoses on Vicodin. I am done picking against the Saints. Did I mention I am done picking any game that involves Daunte Culpepper? I think the bookies are in his pocket.

The Red Sox season is over. Trot Nixon is (probably) gone, as is Loretta. Thank god. What happened to getting younger and faster? Playoffs?

ALDS 1 - Yankees in 3 over Dee-twah
ALDS 2 - Minn. in 5 over Oakland* (Memo to Ron Gardenhire: you wanted to LOSE that game Sunday, buddy...see how Leyland did it? Which sounds better: Trying to silence the yankees bats for 3 of 5 games? or 4 of 7? Not only did you screw yourself, you screwed up the entire AL playoffs. They will invite you back to hand out Torre's rings in April.)
NLDS 1 - Los Angeles over Mets in 4. Remember when the Mets were the favorite in the NL?
NLDS 2 - St. Louis over Padres in 4.

ALCS - Yankees over Minn. in 5 (see aforementioned memo to Ron G.)
NLCS - St. Louis over LAD in 6.

World Series - Yankees over St. Louis in 4. That annoying "27 World Championship Titles" refrain? Make it 28...Here is the thing. If Tweedle-Dee Ron G. had just lost the friggin' game yesterday, Johan would be facing the immortal Chien Ming Wang in game 1 (W) and Corey Lidle or Jarret Wright in game 4 (W.) Throw in a solid start from Boof against an injured RJ? Twins could win in 4. Now you have Johan pitching against Zito (perhaps twice, meaning he might only win one) and Boof and co. going up against arguably the best starting rotation in the playoffs. Without homefield advantage in the ALCS, the Twins might not win a game against the Yankees. If the Twinks didnt have homefield advantage in this series, I'd take the A's. Hoe did Gardenhire miss this?! In fact, I changed my mind, because Gardenhire is good for at least one extra loss per series: *I am actually taking the A's in 5.

Typical me, typical me

2006-09-28T10:29:00.000-07:00

25 million reasons to want to be alive

I got an email yesterday from Brian, asking if I had any intention to chime in on the Terrell Owens saga in the blogosphere. The truth is, I have sent off a piece to popmatters and am waiting to hear back from them. If I don't hear anything by tomorrow EOD or I get a negative response, then I will just paste it up here and on TS for some weekend reading. As I said in my response to Brian, I was not really sure what my reaction would be to the news about T.O. I have never been shy about my dislike for Owens (especially Owens, the showboat) and I truly believe that the best case for all parties involved--from the media to the fans, to T.O.--would be to just ignore the guy, and everything he does. But realistically I know that isnt going to happen. I started my popmatters piece thinking it would be a rip-job on Owens and his publicist for not having the audacity to at least be honest about what happened that led to a 911-call from Owens' publicist (whose job is to keep Owens out of headlines involving things like drug overdoses, police reports, and hospitals.) I mean, she had "25 Million reasons" not to pick up that phone to call, to turn her own phrase around. There is really only ONE reason to call the police in that situation: you think someone's life is in danger. And when that someone reports he is trying to hurt himself, delirious or not, there are some issues there. Anyway, I changed my opinion on how I feel about T.O. in this circumstance, while I was writing, because on a personal level I could empathize, and I think we often lose touch of the fact that athletes are human-beings. Some of them just aren't very good ones. I speak about this more coherently in the piece I submitted so I will either link to it, or post it within the next few days. Update: the piece is in the Sports Editor's hands at Popmatters, so until I get a definitive YES or NO it won't be posted here.

Lanes Merge Ahead (or Some Thoughts on Old Konine)

Listen. Next time I say to anyone, "I am going to live with my parents for a few weeks between moving, and commute 90 minutes to work each way, while I work for 10 hours a day, and then go home eat, take care of my dog, plan my move, and try to apply for grad school..." just take me out back and bitch-smack me.

I mean seriously. Just brutalize me. I deserve it. I can't be waking up 75 minutes before the sun, any longer. It's not good for my sleeping habits--I just cannot get to sleep before midnight, never have, never will--and it has totally exacerbated my coffee intake habits. I tried to watch a baseball game last night and couldn't stop focusing on my hearts strange rhythmic beating. I felt like I was on a bad pill. And then I realized I was watching National League baseball, and one is wont to bore oneself so terribly doing such things, that it isn't unusual to find oneself meditating on one's own heartbeat. Truth be told, I am actually kind of hoping for the Phillies to make the play-offs...if only because it will be tremendously entertaining to watch my father try to repress the urge to root for--and ultimately berate--the team that, in his younger years, got him so worked up, he threw a radio out of his window when they folded during a pennant race.

Here's a quick (well, long) tidbit on my dad: it doesnt matter whose fault it really is when his team (Jets, Red Sox, Phils, whomever...) starts to mess up. It is always the manager or coaches fault. Last night there are men on first and second, one out, and Jeff Konine comes up. (I mean, this is Jeff Konine, if the guy can't bunt, you don't have any use for him anymore. Kids at an Orioles game this year called to him during batting practice once, and asked "hey coach, can you get some of the players to sign for us?" That's no joke.) So I say, "they should bunt here." and my dad gives me a wave of the hand" if Konine can contact, he can drive in a run." Now I am not a big fan of the bunt to push the runner over but A) this is National League baseball and B) Did I mention it was Jeff Konine hitting? Well Konine dribbles into the predictable double-play to end the inning and my dad hisses: "great job Manuel." Now, given the situation there are really two people you can blame for the circumstance that had just occured. And while Charlie Manuel is somewhere on the totem-pole of idiotic managers between Grady Little and Ron Gardenhire--he really cannot be blamed for Jeff Konine grounding into a DP there (unless of course you think Konine should have bunted, but we have established, already my father wanted the stick in Konine's hands.) So the two people you can blame are Jeff Konine (because he sucks) and ("Stand") Pat Gillick (because he decided to hand the Yankees one of the 15 or 20 best hitters in the game, along with a legitimate 5th starter for...uhm, well...So anyways, I mention this to Peter, who bristles and responds: "this team wouldn't be in the position they are in (by this, I suppose, he meant scrapping for a wild-card in the sloppy National League) if Abreu was still a Phillie." Ahh, the grand logic of it all. The Phillies troubles aren't ("Stand") Pat Gillick's fault for giving away Abreu and declaring to his fanbase that the Phillies had no chance of being a playoff team this year or next. No, the Phillies troubles are all to be blamed on Charlie Manuel, for...well, for...being in the dugout while Jeff Konine dribbled into a DP, of course. Nevermind that Abreu would look a little better than Konine in that 5-hole right now.

Later on, the immortal Tom Gordon blew a save giving up 17 balls on 26 pitches. The guy gets paid millions to come in for the ninth inning during close games, to, y'know, not blow it. Well he blew it. How did Pete respond? "Nice work, Manuel!"

A Defining and Profound Moment With a New Album

Well it wasn't Bonnie "Prince" Billy's new album that moved me most from the collection of CDs I purchased most recently. The Letting Go is good, but chalk this up as a case of the pot calling the kettle black. I just really can't say much more about the album then our friends over at pitchfork. It is, indeed, "cozy," and it is more standardly composed than his typical stuff. If it has any brethren in his previous catalog, it would probably be SuperWolf but the female vocals add a sense of celtic mysticism that is suprisingly pleasant with the otherwise rock-influenced sound. It's good, but I am not sure I have given it enough listening. Hopefully, it will grow on me. For now, I am not going to tell you to "go out and get it, immediately!" It's not for instance..

Destroyer's Rubies, which is the best album I have purchased since Sufjan Stevens' last. The thing is, in case I haven't made it abundantly clear, I am not a music writer. I don't understand the intricacies of music the way I comprehend the minutae of sports. But I know what I like and don't like, though I cannot say why sometimes (it just pleases me to hear some stuff, and doesn't please me to hear most) but since I have made a concerted effort to care about music the way that I care about sports, books (and to a lesser extent, films) I have had very few moments where music transcends simple pleasures and morphs into an experience of mind-blowing proportions. I realize it has become a bit passe to refer to specific songs, books, or movies as "mind-blowing" or worse, "life-altering." I don't know if I am just incapable of feeling this strongly about music, or if it is more simple: I hear music so often, and music is much more prolific (but not profound) an influence on my every day life than books and films. I mean, music is on at work, music is on in the car, music is on the stereo when drinking a beer and reading a book, music is on at Target...So I am constantly processing, and often enjoying (see Tapes n Tapes, or Calexico) some very fine music. But I rarely need to pause from it, and go "wow...." the way I have with, say, Ulysses or The Book of David or If On a Winter's Night, a Traveller or White Noise or...on, and on. Well this morning I did have that experience.

It was about 6:20 a.m. and I was plowing East on Rt. 78 (where a disturbing amount of profound shit has been coming to me, as of late) and the sky ahead was a perfect mix of autumn purples and pinks, and I was just digging on my Phillipsburg Deli Coffee, enjoying the fifth or six time through Rubies when I had a moment. I was perfectly at peace with the fact that I was up ridiculosuly early, driving for 90 minutes to sit in a cubicle and do mind-numbing work (when I am not sneaking away to work on blog-posts.) I realized that for all of the imperfections of Dan Bejars voice, and for all of the texture of musical sounds, and lyrical references in the album, there was an essential theme that wasn't very different than the theme of my own life, at this point and time. He is truly grappling with who he is, and how to define himself (artist or con-artist) and he is stuck in this meta-literature critique of who he is and wants to be, but is terrified of being insignificant, or worse, only being significant because he is something different and new. I am not really at the point in my life where I can fret my own significance, but I can relate to his fear of selling himself short to try to write and produce stuff that illicits immediate accolades. The fact remains, trends die fast and hard. Good sustainable art needs to be honest, and needs to be prudent to more than a small self-appointed elite. For Bejar the crowd to fear is the "precious American Underground" (see, aforementioned Pitchforkmedia.com) For me, right now, it is the people who will soon be dissecting each piece of my best writing collected over the past 5-10 years, and wittled down to a "Sample Portfolio." I have submitted the first portfolio this morning, and it is comprised of alot of work that might not suit the MFA crowd (maybe because it sucks, and maybe because it just isn't what they are looking for) but it is stuff I am proud of. And that's the most I can ask for from myself. As for being pertinent and sustainable...well, for the time being, let's just leave that to Bejar. Much like my father's penchant for Manager-hating, Destroyer's Rubies is as vital today as it was yesterday, and will be just as vital, or more-so, tomorrow.

The blog world is having twins! (and I am one of them...)

2006-09-20T10:56:00.000-07:00

The good-looking one, of course

Two tremendous slouches were born today!

I found what I love

2006-09-20T05:34:00.000-07:00

Welcome back, Gammo. I'll let the comissioner speak for himself.

A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent.

2006-09-18T12:11:00.000-07:00

Personified in this case by an 'orrible...ahh, Bill Belichick. Did God put you here to punish me?

Four things by way of introduction: The sports section of this post is decidedly not a bitter “my-team-should-have-won” rant; with that in mind, the Jets really are not terrible; with that in mind, the Pats really aren’t that great; moving sucks.

Making the Family Skeleton Dance

This weekend was about family, in good ways, and in bad. My brother, it seems, has lost his goddamn mind. It would not shock me in the least, if when Roger Clemens eventually comes to the Red Sox he kicks off their season opener with 7 perfect innings, and my brother picks up the phone during the 7th inning stretch and says “You know Rocket has a perfect game going, here?” Apparently this kids’ proclivity to curse a team on a roll is uncanny. To wit: First quarter of the ND game, the Irish are off to a bit of a slow start. They finally get some offense going with a nice drive, and follow that up with a nice sack and an interception on the defensive end. Great. The Irish D is playing pretty good ball. They took a lot of flack in the pre-season as a glaring weakness, and were identified as the reason Notre Dame couldn’t win a championship. 2.25 games into the season they seem to be proving some doubters wrong. Joe calls at this point, and excitedly declares: “This is NOT last year’s defense. With this D they can beat Ohio State.” Over the course of the next two Quarters the Wolverines score 24 unanswered, the Defense gets embarrassed, and Brady Quinn throws his way out of the Heismann conversation and maybe even the first round of the draft. College football needs to change their rules. Your team loses one game, and essentially there is not much of a reason to watch the remainder of the season. Thanks Joe.

Then get this: a little divine intervention gets me a quadruplet of tickets to the Jets game yesterday. I invite Joe. He can’t come. Doesn’t seem to have a reason. But whatever. So I invited my dad, obviously, and Uncle Fred, and then invited my Aunt along as well. Poor lady is a Jets and Phillies fan. So we are at the game, and if you watched you know that the first half was the most atrocious half of football the Jets put up since opening day 2005 (and that is saying something.) But you also know that the second half was probably the most promising half of football they have played in a couple years. After trailing by 24, the Jets make a run to get 14, and are knocking to make it a 3 point game. On the Pats 20 they have first and ten. The phone rings, and it’s Joe. “Hey you guys are watching an unbelievable comeback!” Like clockwork, the Jets inexplicably run twice for no gain, and then Chad gets sacked. They kick a field goal, the Pats manage the clock Brilliantly, so that even when they have their field goal blocked late the Jets don’t have enough time to march back and try to tie it. And the tone in my brothers voice was almost sadistic. Its like he was calling to jinx them. I kid you not.

The good news? I spent some time with some family members whom I probably don’t see enough, got to complain about the Jets with people who know what they are talking about. (Fred’s knowledge of team history is tremendous.) And just as importantly, the Jets played valiantly in a loss, which is more than you can say about almost every loss under Herm last year. I said at the beginning of the year that I would rather have a few extra losses, but at least a glimmer of hope that the team had a decidedly different character, and they showed that yesterday. Losing sucks, always, but it sucks a little less when you know your team is playing every down like it counts.

A few game notes, and then I will end the football meanderings:

Bill Belichick is smart. But he is also a hot-headed, arrogant, prick. Guys like this do two things, as coaches: they win; and they, inevitably, alienate themselves from other teams, league officials, and eventually their own players. I repeat, this is not a fan-boy rant, but Billy-boy made just as many STUPID moves, trying to be cute and arrogant yesterday, as he made smart ones.

Some smart ones from the GEEE-NEEE-USSS: rushing the offense when the Jets were mixing in packages so that they had to burn TOs or were caught offgaurd; short routes to get 5 when that’s exactly what they needed; clock management (how is it possible that the Patriots seem to be the only team in the NFL who know how to manage the damn clock?)

Some stupid Billy-moves: a pitch on 3rd and 7 when they were up 24 early in the third quarter. It was a message play: “I can do whatever I want. We are running all over you, and I will probably gain 6 yards and get this first down. If I don’t, oh well.” What ensued was 17 unanswered. Tom Brady didn’t get any rest (and got roughed up a bit in that final quarter, when he should have been resting with a secure lead.) and the Pats narrowly escaped with a win, when they really should have been marching out after a trouncing. The red-flag on the Cotchery play. Everyone in that stadium knew Cotchery got the TD. Bill was pissed at his D, didn’t take it out on them, and instead looked like a whiny child who didn’t get his way, debating a clear-cut TD. He threw away a TO for nothing. Taking the delay of game to push back your kicker 5 yards. If you hit that kick you have a ten point lead with less than a minute and a half to go. If you push it back five yards and burn the clock? Well the Pats did that, the kick got blocked and the Jets had almost a minute to try to tie the game. Something tells me that against better teams the Patriots fans are going to be pining for a few guys that Bill and the brain-trust decided were expendable. Their names are Branch, McGinest and Vinatieri. On the positive side for Pats fans: Teddy Bruschi is not overrated. Nor is Tom Brady.

Moving. Just Keep Moving.

I hate moving. You throw out tons of crap that you never should have had in the first place, and give away even more of said “junk,” you put your life into boxes, and sit around in desolate empty rooms, waiting to trade spaces. You spend your weekend in Lowes and Linens and Things, and you tread water. Then you move and it takes weeks, or months to settle in and get things the way you want them to be. It sucks. But in this case it will be worth it. Some good news: you get to eat out more often. I had an amazing hamburger on Friday night, as well as the best Oktoberfest I think I have ever had. Brewer, in particular, is confused about the wreckage that is our former apartment. Maybe he is just wondering why his peoples cut his hair down.

Nick Cafardo gets it wrong (and his editor doesn’t bail him out.)

Not sure what the hell Nick Cafardo was thinking when he decided to write this little bit in his article about how David Murphy (for some unspecified reason) needs to live up to his hype on a shorter time-frame because he was a first round pick in 2003:

“The '03 draft produced Rocco Baldelli, Mark Teixeira, Jose Reyes, Joe Mauer, Miguel Cabrera, Justin Morneau, Johan Santana, Travis Haffner, Hanley Ramirez, Rich Harden, Lastings Milledge, Brandon Wood, Nick Markakis, Chad Cordero, and Rickey Weeks.”

The truth is that Johan was drafted in 1995 (and won the Cy Young in his FIFTH year in the league, 2004.) Mauer and Teixeira were draftees in 2001, Hafner (with one, “F,” Mr. Cafardo) was drafted in 1996 but didn’t make the pros until 2002, and Morneau was drafted in 1999! That is just atrocious reporting. But it amazes me that it made it past an editors desk. I am not the smartest baseball fan in the world and I noticed most of these errors on first glance. The rest I identified with about two minutes of research. How does an editor not pick these up?! Good question, Geoff. I emailed the Globe and will let you know what I hear.

Going to pick up the new BPB album tomorrow and will hopefully be able to provide a little more insight than you might find elsewhere. Don't drink and review, people. Also, I have a review of To Hate Like This is to be Happy Forever, that I never submitted to popmatters.com. I will try to get that posted here, soon. This week: packing. This weekend: fun with the college gentlemens. But we’ll talk before then, won’t we?

Things I don't Remember: How the Hell'd We Get Here?!

2006-09-14T05:03:00.000-07:00

The Artist Formerly Known as "NBB" and before that "TBK" (now given an 82 out of 100, by Dr. Benjamin Cooper.)

Yet another name change, folks. Just to review, this is now the third title for this blog, and I guess with each name-change, I have shifted focus a little bit, so why make this any different. TBK (or The Bees Knees--which this site remains, in concept) was something of an extension from the myspace blog...a way for me to share the blog with people who didn't y'know, have fashion mullets, read Kierkegaard, and listen to Depeche Mode. People like my parents. Anyway, the idea there was to talk about everything "culture" from books to sports to politics to music. Then I realized that I wasn't talking so much about, well, ANYTHING, except sports. So I got a little one-track-minded, shifted the name to "Namath's Booze Breath" to honor my favorite child-hood hero turned drunken slob, turned national embarassment. I guess my goal is to mesh the two a little better. That is, to still discuss sports but perhaps in a more relevant way, and to (however incongruous it may be) discuss whatever else is going on: what I am reading, a little voyeurism into my own life, midterm elections, TV, movies, music. A virtual bar discussion. Or "bar monologue" as it may be (hence the name, harkening back to the old German Beer Halls...and thanks to Tim for the suggestion.) Hopefully the result will be more palatable for more people...something more along the lines of what I had going on in the first incarnation of my blog, at the previous site. They say "You can never go home again," but we'll see. To start off on the right foot: a little football, followed by some voyeurism, and some closing thoughts on a few CDs. Thanks for the patience as Darwinism does its thing to my site.

Like Deja Vu All Over Again

"The Patriots front office doesn't miss a trick." -- This statement comes from Don Banks' Sports Illustrated write-up from week one. Like almost everything the mainstream media says about the Patriots, I found it hard to actually take-in. (I was too busy plugging my nose from the scent of Kraft-excrement on Banks' breath.) Banks makes this gushing exclamation as an introduction to what, I can only assume, Banks thinks is a cute little story: Last month as the Pats prepared for their season-opener against the Bills, the team went out and signed on a former Bills receiver who was under the impression that he would be on the starting day roster. For the next three weeks they grilled him for every bit of info he had on the Bills defense. Then they cut him. Banks, of course, finds this sooo clever. Nevermind the fact that Jonathan Smith (the ex-Bills receiver in question) was probably looking forward to being a member of an NFL team, and taking home a paycheck to feed his family. Nobody cares about the replacement-level receivers here, people. The story, here, is how SMART that Foxboro front office is! Wing-ding-diddly-doo, how brilliant they are!! And little anecdotes like this are the reason I am truly starting to believe I hate the Patriots more than I despise their baseball doppelgangers from the Bronx. The thing about the Yankees is they go about their business (that is to say "winning") the right way. Say what you will about the pay-roll. It sucks, and it bores me to tears that teams can, and do, buy rings, but that's the nature of the league as it is currently constituted. The best teams are the ones who can afford the best players. Just ask my '04 Sox (second highest payroll in the league.) Outside of this (admittedly significant) abberation, the Yankees are one of the "classiest" organizations in sports. It sickens me to hear their fans talk about this quality, but in alot of ways it is true. Witness the events of the past few weeks. Following the comments Ortiz made about Jeter, "The Captain" responded brilliantly and with the kind of leadership, and team-player attitude that Papi should be showing in this awful stretch, something along the lines of: "we don't worry about individual awards, here. We are playing for a championship." After John Lester was diagnosed with Lymphoma, there was a giant boquet of flowers sent to his locker within 24 hours. The sender? The New York Yankees. See? Class. And at every opportunity the sports media has, they try to paint the Yanks as a villified franchise. But the Pats? Nah, the Pats breaking some guys heart and punching out his last breath of hope at staying in the NFL? Well that's just smart work by the suits in Foxboro. Disgusting. (I need a few minutes to wash my face after that Yankees brown-nosing.)

We're back. Y'know, I can't remember the most recent time the Jets beat the Pats? That's not Hyperbole. That's a fact. Some research tells me it was week 16, 2002. I really can't remember where I was, then. Logic tells me I must have been at Lehigh. But I wasn't 21, so I wasn't at a bar... The point of this? I remember Jets games. Particularly important ones. For instance, I rememer week 17 of that same year very distinctly: a W over Green Bay to eek into the playoffs. I was in Meg's parents' attic. I remember a week 16 game against the Patriots at the end of a very unspectacular 2003. A certain sideline incident lent its name to the second incarnation of this blog. And perhaps that moment is very telling as to why I can't remember the last time the Jets beat the Pat-men: it epitomized what a painfully, excrutiatingly embarassing stretch the last three years of this rivalry has been. It's been one-sided. It's been what the Sox-Yanks was from the mid-90's to 2004. And perhaps that's why this rivalry is consuming me in ways that the Yankees one no longer can: because, as much as Sox fans hated to admit it, what kept that rivalry thriving was the sense of entitlement the fans from the Bronx had, and the vitriol that cockiness stoked in the hearts of a fan-base with a painful inferiority complex. Nobody likes to root for a constant loser. And when they have to they get angry, and they get brash (and often drunk) and the results are often mayhem. For all the media-hype about the Sox-Yanks rivalry, you just don't see that much anger, anymore. Tim and I went to a game, where he wore a Yankees T-shirt in the belachers, in the middle of a five-game embarassment at the hands of the Sox "daunted rivals." He barely heard peep. That wouldn't have happened 5 years ago. No doubt about it. There is an understanding there. For the time-being the Sox fans have a tenuous choke-hold on the Yanks fans. And noone really knows how to act. I have a feeling that the folks who plan on wearing their Tom Brady jerseys to the meadowlands on Sunday are not going to be received with as much acceptance as Tm saw in Fenway last month. Dr. Z, in fact, thinks the scene is going to be so insane that its going to tilt the odds in the Jets favor. Dr. Z predicts an upset special in this weeks forecast. Dr. Z is an idiot.

Pats 27-Jets 13

Feeling Voyeuristic Today? (feels good to say that again)

"That was the day man became his god, man became his devil. Man became his good, man became his evil. Tomorrow will be the 22nd Century." -- Nina Simone

I know I am late to the table on this one, but given the fact that Monday was the five-year anniversary of 9/11, I wanted to share a really nice tribute piece that Tim forwarded me, written by a "friend-of-a-friend." The reason I share the piece is two-fold. First, because it was the most appropriate thing I read on Monday. It wasn't cynical, and it wasn't bogged down by rah-rah, "kill-'em-all for doing this to us," righteousness. It was just a great tribute, and one young guy's personal story. The second reason I share it is admittedly a little narcissistic. If that's problematic for you, stop reading. Blogs are nothing if not a tool of narcissism. While my own recollection of September 5 years ago is nowhere near as tragic or personal as Billy's, he brings up a point that I really connected with, an issue that has been at the forefront of my conscience lately: and that is the elasticity of time, and how over a stretch of time (and for me, the stretch of time in question is the same 5 years, as the time that Billy discusses. I use this period for reasonns totally unrelated to what happened that day.) But over any certain stretch of time things can change so utterly, while so many things do not change at all. In the past 5 years we have seen the explosion of technologies that brought us the main-stream usage of the I-Pod, Hybrid Cars, "blogs", phones that film videos, and on and on. Highways have been expanded, cities have gone through renaissances, or depressions, and the world has changed. And yet, we still debate issues of abortion, religion, taxes, wars.

In my own life I have graduated college. I have gotten a promotion. I have been to weddings. I have had my own wedding. I have most recently bought a condo and added a young, furry, family member to my life. And yet, I can still think of few things better than a canoe-ride on an overcast morning in Maine; or a cold beer and a good book; or a Friday night spent shooting-the-shit with buddies at a quiet bar or Madamme Claude; or Sunday Afternoons wasted watching the Jets while my dad nervously paces and sweeps the kitchen floors. Life changes, and moves on. And so they say, "the more things change, the more they stay the same."

I know I promised to talk CDs but I don't have it in me right now. I'm not a hipster from Chicago, so perhaps my opinion means nothing. But if you're looking for good mellow music, check these out: Band of Horses; M Ward. Plans for this weekend: I feel like I haven't seen some old friends in a while. Perhaps a trip to Brooklyn is in order. Sunday, I'll be with Pete, hoping against hope that this will be a Sunday to remember: the most recent time the Jets beat the Patriots.

Genie in a bottle (Coors Light, of course)

2006-09-11T13:01:00.000-07:00

True story. My dad came back from the movies Saturday night and had two messages on the machine. It went something like this:

7:50 PM: “Hey Pete, it’s your brother, Fred. I’m sitting down with Fenway (his yellow lab) and a couple Coors Lights, going over the schedule, and I’m thinking 7-9. 7-9 seems pretty reasonable. Tomorrow’s a big one.” (yes, if you're the Jets and planning on going 7-9, beating a team with Kerry Collins at QB is, in fact, "a big one.")
9:45 PM: “Pete, Fritz again. Had a couple more Coors Lights. Going back over the schedule, and I have revised it to 9-7. I think 9-7 is definitely doable. Crazier things have happened.”

My dad called Fred at half past Ten and told him to just keep drinking until he got somewhere closer to 16-0. A couple things you gotta love about the blindly loyal fan: they almost never can truly understand the limitations of their own team, and they almost ALWAYS see the faults in every other team with clear and perfect vision. Fred could tell you in two minutes why the Pats can’t win the Super Bowl this year (no deep threats, Corey Dillon is getting older, loss of McGinest is killer, whose their defensive coordinator?) but ask him about the Jets chances and for as much as he knows about the Jets, as much time as he spends watching, reading, following the team, the answer will inevitably be something ridiculous like: “All depends on Pennington’s shoulder.” Why is this? Simple, it’s much easier to say the season hinges on the stressed tendons of a mediocre QB’s shoulder than it is to analyze all of the many weaknesses of one’s own team. In November, we can say, “we shouldn’t have put our faith in the arm of a guy with two shoulder surgeries in the last two years.” Sounds a lot better than, “the defense was soft against the pass, David Barret belongs in the CFL, our Special Teams were mediocre at best, any team who knew to Blitz our young line and shake-up our fragile passer was bound to smoke us,” and so on…So when Pennington threw for 315 yards on Sunday with two nice TD passes and no interceptions (debatable, and lets not mention the fumble inside his own five) and the Patriots look extremely beatable in the meantime, what does Fred have to say when my dad picks up the phone? “I am giving the Jets the victory at home next week. Make it 10-6.” He was kidding. I think. But with Fred, the truth is, you never know. You can’t fault the blindly faithful for their optimism.

And sometimes that optimism can get infectious. No joke. Here’s what I just did: I just poured myself a fresh cup of coffee, stretched out in my chair and pulled out the Jets schedule. I looked it up and down. I tried to be as unbiased as possible. I went over every game. I drew in the pre-requisite victories to the Patriots that Chad Pennington inevitably affords his rivals each season. In addition, I chalked up the following games as losses: Oct. 1 vs. Colts, Nov. 10 vs. Bears; Oct. 8 @ JAX. That’s it. Every other game is winnable as long as Chad Pennington can be an actual NFL quarterback. Outside of New England (and maybe they can steel one from the Pats, they’re due right?!) the division is very beatable. Non-conference games include Dee-twah, Houston , Oakland at home; and Minnesota, Green Bay, Cleveland on the Road. Say they win 3-4 against Miami and the Bills (maybe they lose in Miami on Christmas) Then say they cough one up to Minnesota on the road. Is it possible the Jets could still end up having a winning record? Even if the Jets are just an OK team (admittedly a stretch) if Pennington can stay healthy and the three-headed monster (tongue-firm-in-cheek) of Blaylock, Houston, and Barlow can combine for 125-175 yards a game, can’t this team put up some offensive numbers against an average defense? If the D plays like they did yesterday, can’t they hold the following QB/RB tandems to 17 P/PG: Lohsman/McGinest; Culpepper/Brown; Kitna/Take-Your-Pick; Carr/Davis; Brooks/LaMont? Why not? Why can’t the Jets have a winning record? Crazier things have happened.

It all comes down to this Sunday. The fact is when you beat a mediocre team in an ugly game that should have been a blow out had your (second round draft-choice!!) kicker bothered to do his job, it’s pretty hard to know where your at. I mean a win is almost always positive, but a kicker who misses two chips of 35 yards or less is worrisome, as is the lack of any dominant runner. Teams have won games with the multi-pronged RB approach before (see 2004 Eagles) but almost always, at least one of those guys was better than average. I’m not sure Blaylock qualifies. If you can take a home opener against the division favorites, you have reason for excitement. But any time you win, the fact is, there is little reason to get dispirited. Pennington is healthy, the running game was serviceable (thanks more to the young line doing its job than to any impressive work from the back-field.) As for the D, the unit as a whole looks to be solid in the 3-4, even without Abraham (whom I will keep saying “never would have fit into this scheme”) and minus David Barrett, they all stayed within their zones. The fact is if you play smart team football with consistent QB work, and brainy coaching you can stay in a game with almost every team in the modern NFL. Do that against enough average or below average teams and you’ll find yourself playing games that matter in December. Even if you are the Jets. And even if I wrote you off for dead three days ago. It starts with a win that means something…say Sunday at 4. You never know. Crazier things have happened.

SHUT UP, YOU!

2006-09-11T09:09:00.000-07:00

Big Papi shows his frustration and throws his teammates, along with just about every other talented baseball player in the AL, under the bus. Ortiz: Boston's Fall Shouldn't Impact AL MVP Vote. Yes it should. The Red Sox folded. An MVP keeps his team in the race. When the Yankees were hobbled Jeter kept them breathing, Santana (my pick for MVP) kept together a team that in mid-June looked lifeless. The Sox fell apart and Papi didn't do anything outrageous to keep them in the race. He can't be faulted for being ill, he can't be faulted for everyone else's bats slumbering. But the Red Sox blew up before our eyes, and MVP's shouldn't come from teams that implode. If he was that valuable he would have done something spectacular to keep the team afloat. This does not include bitching and moaning about individual awards when you should be focusing on the fact that your team just got fisted by the Royals. Shut up, David. Back with some Jets observations later in the day.

Don't Need a Weatherman to Know Which Way the Wind Blows

2006-09-08T05:31:00.000-07:00

The Prologue: The Good Lord smote the Sox, and declared of the JETS fans "Thy Faith Shall be rewarded (just not this year...or next)"

Before I get into the soon-to-unfold disaster that will be known as the New York Jets '06-'07 season, let's talk a little baseball.

The Sermon: One Last Hail Mary, Sunday Mornings Coming Down, Hope Springs Eternal (and more Mixed Metaphors)

For the masochists out there: what will it take over the next 10 Days for the Red Sox Season to mean anything? During the next stretch of games the Sox season will almost certainly become a total and utter disaster. One losing series to the Royals or Orioles, and/or a sweep in the Bronx will spell the OFFICIAL end. For the believers out there, who refuse to admit a season is over just because 3/5 of your starting rotation has never won 2 games in a row in the Major Leagues, there is still hope. It comes in the form of a schedule that, on paper, favors the Olde Town Team. However, a thing on paper doesn't always translate well to a thing in reality. So, yes, on paper, there is hope. To wit, schedules over the next 10 days:

The Walking Wounded: 3 v. KC; 3 @ BAL; 4 @ NYY
Hawk Harrelson's "Best Team in Baseball" (According to a July WEEI interview) : 3 v. CLE; 3 @ LAA; 3 @ OAK
The Dizygotics (Johan Santana and Boof Bonser? Decidedly NOT identitical) : 3 v. DET; 3 v. OAK; 4 @ CLE

So that's it. The question is, can the Red Sox score some runs? If so, it isn't outrageous to think they can sweep the Royals at home, take 2 of 3 in Bal-a-mer, and split a series in NY (with Schilling and Knuckles back in the rotation.) During that same stretch, you have to root for the West to take 4 of the 6 from Chicago; Cleveland to play like the team everyone thought they'd be in March; and just pray that Ron Gardenhire remembers he is Ron Gardenhire and gives away two to Dee-Twah, and lets his team get beat and possibly swept in OAK (Santana won't be pitching, so its a possibility.) If all of that happens the Sox can be in striking distance when they play the Twins in a week and a half. So that's it. Not gonna happen. Final records? I don't know. Try these:

Twins (WC): 94-68
CWS: 92-70
Pawtucket: 86-76

The worst thing my uncle ever did to me...isn't what you think. Christmas, 1994, football was on at my grandparents and, being 12, I didn't really understand much. I knew Dallas was good, I knew Barry Sanders was a (GREAT) running back. I think I knew Boomer Esiason was a Quarterback, whose job was (supposed to be) to throw the ball to his recievers. That's about it. Oh, I also knew the Jets sucked. To the point where my typically calm and quiet uncle was known to burst into a tirade of profanities while the rest of us quietly scraped our forks against our plates, and chewed our ham, all secretly embarassed for the maniac in the TV room wearing a hideous green jersey, yelling things like: "Why are you throwin' the ball to Ryan Fuckin' Yarborough? Godammit, Pete Carroll, you will NEVER win a game that counts!" (the Jets record at the time? 6-9. It was indeed "a game that counts.") That offseason, for whatever reason, I simply decided I was going to be a Jets fan. I think it was a joke at first. Or maybe it was because for all his yelling and frustration, my Uncle Fred seemed to be the only person at family Christmas who was actually enjoying himself. It's like he got a sick satisfaction out of losing. It allowed him to vent all the frustration that builds up around these ceremonial family gatherings. The rest of us held it all in during an awkward meal filled with small talk, and obvious avoidance of discussions involving politics, culture, or the fact that it was my father's fault (along with Joe Namath and John Lennon) that Fred tunred out this way. Meanwhile Fred could take it all out on Adrienne Murrel or Fred Baxter. Seemed like fun.

I mention all this, not because I feel it necessary to relive the awkward moments of Schmidt family Christmases, but because it is essential to understanding this generation of Jets fans: we were "born" losers. That is to say we came to the Jets at a time when hope was lost. We chose a team knowing full-well that we would be disappointed by them for years to come. Almost every Jets fan between 20 and 30 I have ever spoken to started rooting for the Jets as a joke or "because it was too easy to root for the Giants." One co-worker, who is slightly older than me, told me he started rooting for the Jets because in 1990 he was a Penn State fan, and when they drafted Blair Thomas, he decided since the Jets were just as close as the Giants, he would switch allegiances so he could root for a home town team AND Blair Thomas. Blair Thomas and the Jets. I've never seen this guy crack a smile. Essentially, all young Jets fans, like myself and my miserable co-worker, picked a loser. ON PURPOSE. Fans are sick people. Jets fans, in particular, are really sick people. We had a choice between perennial winners, and perennial punch-lines. We chose the agony. It's in our nature. In September of '95 a classmate offered to bring Brian and me to all of the Jets home games. His dad worked for M&M Mars, where his co-worker was a season ticket holder. Seaon-Ticket-holder guy's wife had terminal cancer. He gave us his tickets. In other words, the desire to escape from awful family gatherings and bond with my semi-normal uncle made me a casual Jets fan. Terminal cancer made me a fanatic. See where I am going with this? For the next six years of my life I attended almost every single home game. I merrilly chanted "Kotite Sucks" while they lost all but one in 1996. I booed Neil O'Donnell. I cheered on Vinny Testaverde while the Jets trounced the Jaguars in the playoffs in January, '99. I thought Chad Pennington was the next Joe Montana. Then, I made my dad a fanatic-by-proxy. He was forced to root for the Jets because for the last ten years a Jets loss almost certainly meant the inevitability of thrown breakable objects (or from Freshman year of college on, a drunken voicemail rant where I would threaten to drop out of school if Paul Hackett was not fired by Monday morning.) I became obsessive. I fully expected this team (which I picked because they were a bunch of losers) to actually start winning. Every single Sunday. I was an irrational fan. I was uncle Fred.

Enough with the credentials. The point is, for the last 10 years of my life (since 1997) I have been convinced that each year was "The Year." Whether the experts had them winning the division or going 8-8, I always had private reasons why the Jets could be the best team in the NFL. I always had hope. This year is hopeless. This year is beyond hopeless. It's the kind of year you wish you could fast forward. Our QB is a corpse. Our best offensive threat played all of last year like he was still suffering from flash backs of the things his family members did to him (much worse than making him a Jets fan) and our most exciting young stud is an offensive linemen. Try getting excited about a great play by an offensive linemen. Unless your name is John Madden, it can't be done. Seriously, try it. So what's a fan to do? I'll tell you what. Root, and root hard. For the other team. A 6-10 team is painful to watch (and doesn't provide nearly the comedic value of a 1-15 team.) A 1-15 team provides hope. Next year has to be better, and the year after that, with all your young top picks coming of age will be even better than that. If this team can be the 1996 Jets, then there is hope that in 2 or 3 years, they can be a contender. And hoping for something better is what being a Jets fan is all about. Just Ask the guy who sat behind us all those years (see the image of hope-personified, above.)

Epilogue: Take 'er easy, dude!

So in the end there just isn't much for all you Sox/Jets fans--errr, me--to root for. It's going to be a long autumn, but a good one. Sometimes the world is slightly bigger than sports. Plenty of time to enjoy the changing leaves, read some books, and get to know my new neighborhood. Plenty of time to focus on the Hot Stove season, College football (wait I'm focusing on sports, again.) Plenty of time to mentally prepare for this year's family Christmas. Where for once, Fred and I will be glad to watch the Jets lose.

i could not get through september without a battle

2006-08-29T09:50:00.000-07:00

Phil Elvrum said it best. The Glow is gone. I can't watch this team anymore. I don't feel like a bad fan. I would feel like a bad fan if I continued to support this horseshit. Who wants to pay 40 bucks a month for the Extra Innings Package just to watch three innings of the shadow of their favorite team getting blown out before flipping over to see how your Fantasy QB is doing in his preseason debut. I am more excited about my fantasy QB and his bum knee than I am about the Sox in September. Stop this, now! So the season is done. I am not going to go into the details of why because

A) it's painful
B) ESPN is making it their job to rub this salt in the wound, so if you really care to know you can tune into PTI or Around The Horn, where undoubtedly the discussion will go something like this:

Tony Reali: Welcome Back to Around the Horn, the Sports Show of Competitive Banter. Word out of Beantown is that David Ortiz's heartbeat is irregular. What say you, Mariotti? Have the Sox playoff hopes gone the way of Ortiz and Manny's Bill-of-Health? That is to say, SPLAAA-DOOOOOOSHH?!

Mariotti (with overzealous smacking of right hand into left palm, intermittenly interrupted by flailing shrugs): How can you say it isn't Reali?!! I mean, look at the situation, here!! You've got Ortiz having heart failure 90 minutes before a game, Nixon, Varitek (the HEART OF THE TEAM!) on the D.L. Beckett's been ineffective! MANNY's Being Manny!! The Manager has lost the team, Management didn't go out and get them the pieces. Guy's are giving up!! Manny's being Manny! This Crisp guy has been a bust! I mean you gotta wonder if this isn't the curse of Johnny Damon coming back to haunt them. And you know, Reali, you got Manny being Manny--

Woody Hayes: Absolutely not! What nobody here is realizing is that this team is not David Ortiz' team. They aren't Manny's team. This team is Willis Moo Piniero's team. Look at the games, guys. They go the way of this young stud. As long as Piniero is there, and Arroyo is anchoring the back of the staff, they'll be ok. It's always the Yankees and the Red Sox in the Palyoffs.

Bill Plaschke: Yeah but Woody, but Woody, but Woody! You gotta understand you have a guy like Ortiz out of your lineup the season's over, I mean this is like the A-Team with Out Mr. T., or--

Woody: Or Los Angeles without an NFL team

(Group Chuckle)

Plaschke: But guys, but guys! Mariotti's right, I mean, this is the season the Sox were supposed to beat the Yankees. They were 4 games up. They were gonna finally reverse the Curse!

Ughhh! Kill me now. Is it saying something that I actually miss Michael Holley's presence on that show? So back to the point: the season is over. I guess this will allow me to focus on more important things: like my dog, my wife, or my search for a new home. Still a man needs some extracurriculars to keep his head on straight.

What to Do when you have Less Confidence in Your Team's Playoff Chances than the American Public has in George Bush

From CNN.com:

Who would win a debate on world issues between President Bush and Iranian President Ahmadinejad?

Bush 38%
9632 votes

Ahmadinejad 62%
15776 votes

Total: 25408 votes

My confidence in the Sox playoffs chances are nowhere near 38%. In fact, the chances are about the same as the chances that "The Decider" Takes up Ahmadinejad's offer: .0002 testicle-hairs of a percent.

So I have to find some other kind of important things to do:

1.) Play with Dog
2.) Buy new house
3.) Talk to Wife
4.) Watch Rescue Me . Seriously, if you aren't watching this show yet, there is something wrong with you. Here is all you need to know: It is a show about NY Firefighters; One is banging a nun.; One is banging a woman who looks like his 10 year old daughter; One is banging an illegal from Jamaica; And one is banging his ex-wife, who's also banging his brother (well was until his brother got shot.)
5.) Revel in the joy of other fans whose teams are NOT from the Bronx.
6.) Call old friends, meet for good beers by the water.
7.) Notre Dame Football. It always comes back to sports.

And behold, a pale horse. And he who sat on it...

2006-08-22T13:17:00.000-07:00

I was reading Bob Ryan’s fantastic column this morning, shortly after nearly spitting my coffee out all over the computer screen. The reason, I nearly spit my coffee all over the computer screen was because one of my favorite writers, Sean McAdam, of the Providence Journal, had the audacity to take to task one of the three Red Sox players who played against the Yankees with any shred of dignity this weekend. It has become sacrilegious in Boston to say anything negative about David Ortiz (for good reason) and Curt Schilling has become a media darling, what with his regular radio appearances, and message board postings. So it isn’t hard to surmise whom McAdam was griping about in this morning’s column: Manny Ramirez (he of the .850 OBP this weekend.) Now I have made no bones about my stance on Manny: I am an apologist and a fan, through and through. I love the way he hits, I love the way he plays the game (yes, believe it or not, I find it refreshing that there are people out there who still approach the game as just that, a game…because I certainly cannot) and I love the way he deals with the media: he doesn’t. So perhaps it is predictable for me to defend Manny against McAdam’s vitriol.

It isn't so much that McAdam is clearly looking for a scapegoat upon which to vent his anger—going back to his proverbial whipping boy—that has me up in arms, as the fact that McAdam and his Boston Media buddies are incapable of seeing the Forest for the trees. Indeed, it is not only McAdam but also Masserotti, the EEI talking heads, even Jackie MacMullan, who seem to have latched onto the story of Manny’s frustration over a blown call, which may or may not have lead to Manny asking for a day off (following a double-header, one game of which was the longest 9-inning affair in history.)

Let’s take a look at this embarrassing weekend: filled with two games of abominable starting pitching; four games of self-combusting relief-pitching; five games of untimely whiffing that made me mourn for the days of the ever-clutch Edgar Rent-a-Wreck; five games of absolutely putrid plate approach (did Coco Crisp take one pitch?!); five games of bone-headed managerial decisions that were not only inexplicable but often in direct contrast to everything logical; five games filled with wasted talent and salary, underachieving bums all of them, with the exception of three players. And yet, the Boston Media, in their frustration, was simply incapable of pointing the smoking gun back at the guilty party (a Front Office, whom for better of for worse chose not to make any moves to improve the team, and was exposed by a team whose Front Office did what it takes to win now.) Now I happen to believe, given the little information I have, that the Front Office was correct to hold their chips. I see Jon Lester, Craig Hansen, and Manny Del Carmen as vital members of a potentially dominating staff in 2 years. But it just isn’t good copy—and quite frankly is complete “homerism”—for the Boston media to write this past series off as “losing the battle to win the war.” Indeed, as Ryan suggests, we fans, and the media as well, need to sever heads. Without bloodshed, apparently, there is no catharsis. And, how pathetic it is that the easiest lamb to bleed is the one that won’t make a whisper in response—the one from whom the media is unable to get a single line of decent copy—unless of course they make something out of nothing.

Ryan’s prescient lines on the ensuing blood-bath were dead-on accurate, but the final lines aren’t the part of Ryan’s article that moved me to respond, or even to think any differently than I had of what was ultimately a disgraceful, but not unpredictable series outcome. Rather, what moved me (damn near to tears) was my nonchalant reaction—even, acceptance—of one simple line. On the second page of the article, Ryan posts the following: “ In its present form, the Yankees are a thoroughly likeable and rootable team.” And the troubling, terrifying thing is…aren’t they? I mean, when one strips away the shocking price-tag, the overrated Manager, the whiny Third Basemen, the ‘Roid addicts, and the obnoxious (yet unfortunately nearly identical to its Boston Counterpart) fanbase, isn’t there lots about this team that the average baseball fan can appreciate? Consider:

-For as much talk about the barren Yankees farm system as there has been the past few years they keep pulling home-grown rabbits out of the hat with guys like Cano, Wang, Melky, and even the occasional Andy Phillips.

-Their pro-talent evaluation the past two years has been superior to most in the league. I’m not kidding. Perhaps it’s dumb luck but how big have the following names been—all of whom the average Joe scoffed at when signed: Aaron Small, Mike Meyers, Scott Proctor, Ron Villone, Shawn Chacon (who turned into Craig Wilson), and now Corey Lidle…oh, and that Abreu guy can handle the stick alright, too.

-Derek Jeter may be overrated according to every Sabermetrician in New England, but according to this Red Sox fan who watches lots of Yankees games there are only two A.L. hitters I wouldn’t want to see my team face with the game on the line, my best pitcher on the mound: Papi and Jeter.

-All of the guys on the team, and their fans, hate A-Rod too.

-I was at the game on Saturday and I saw a total contrast in the way these two teams carried themselves: one like a bunch of stuck-up selfish ballplayers, all wearing the same uniform, and all ready to throw one another under the bus in their press-conference, a bunch of uptight ballplayers afraid to lose; the other team I saw was loose, growing goofy facial hair, cheering each other on whether they were lifelong members or the new guys who just kept raking and fitting right in, a real team who played with one another and knew they had eachother backs (well except for that guy on Third) and could grind out pitchers, make plays and hits for one another, knew if they played together they could win.

I have seen three teams like that before in my lifetime: ‘93 Phillies, ’04 Red Sox, ’05 White Sox. Two of those three were World Series Champs. Two were teams I really loved to watch (and only one had the word Sox in their name.) One of those teams was the best team I ever saw, and Johnny Damon was hitting lead-off and playing Center Field. The point? This is going to be a great Autumn for Yankees fans. For Red Sox fans? Well, you can be man enough to watch the Yanks do their best imitation of the Rich Man’s “Why Not Us?” Red Sox, or you can find something else to occupy your time. As for me, I have this model airplane hobby I’ve been thinking of taking up.

A Hundred Sixty-Two Degrees and Rising

2006-08-02T13:00:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of year again: August, the month where baseball fans begin to panic. In droves, like lemmings, the loyal fans of first-place teams, and teams in the wild-card hunt walk zombie-like towards the cliff, and get ready to jump. The sky is falling in out in detroit, where if the team doesn't make the playoffs, entering the final two months with an 8.5 game lead, they may just move to Montreal, and start from scratch. Why is the sky falling in? Because of a 1-2 series against the divisional rival twins over the weekend, and according to the blogger "Walk Off Balk" because God hates him. Of course, now that we are mid-week the Twins have lost their young gun and, suddenly, the Twin Cities are in a panic. Steve Phillips' "best rotation in baseball" is going to have to be more reliant on an offense that has statistically played over their heads for the past two months. And the tides are turning out in Oakland, where a suddenly anaemic offense is nullifying the success of the Athletics' most recent crop of young arms. Indeed, it seems that from the Mid-West to the West panic is setting in on Waiver-Wire-Wednesday. And then of course, there is the Red Sox.

The Curse of the Tattoo-Bet

Now I am not normally one for curses. I didn't believe in Shaughnessy's Curse of the Bambino, and I am not afraid of an injured bird hobbling around second base at Fenway. But I do believe in the metaphysical improbability of fan-on-team jinxes. I believe that a certain position a fan sits in, a beverage a fan chooses to drink, or (as was the case in October of 2004) the inning in which a fan chooses to blow out a burning candle--the 6th, of course--can affect the outcome of a game, or a series, even a season. Call me crazy, but even as I refuse to accept the possibility that an injured black-bird could be the cause of what seems to be the worst string of Karma the Red Sox have had in years, I have no doubt, whatsoever, that their trials and tribulations are directly related to an idiotic drunken bet made on the deck of a friend's house on the 3rd of July. On that fateful evening, with the Yankees trailing the basement-bound Cleveland Indians, and the Red Sox riding a 16-1 streak, I promised my friend Tim that the season was over. The Sox, I proclaimed (under the influence of a few cold beers and a few hours of the hot sun) would win the division. And not only that--NOT ONLY THAT!--but the Yankees won't even make the playoffs. Playoffs?! PLAYOFFS?!! PLAAAYYOFFSS?!!!?!

You ask: What inspires an otherwise rational human-being, an intelligent, college educated, Sports Research Editor, to make such a rash, foolish--nay, downright INANE--statement? The answer, sadly, is I have no idea. Simply amazing and inexplicable is the manic rationale of the overzealous fan. A win over Tampa Bay in May can smell so much like the burnt smoke of shopping-cart pretzels in October, feel so much like the beginning of something beautiful blooming, a flowering bud on the trees above, emerging in time-lapsing images into a World Championship Ring. And a week later? A one run loss to the Yankees can spell doom. The team is falling apart, there's no chemistry, not enough speed on the base-paths, the off-season acquisitions are like produce picked up in haste at the grocery store, brought home to rot on the window-sill. You never really eat Bananas, anyway! Your team is done.

But then there's a run like the Sox went on to end the month of June: Sure, it was against a group of teams from that "special-needs league" who arrived to the Stadium in a caravan of short busses, drool spotting their chins, chewing on their pine-tar, stumbling around with their cleats tied together. And perhaps, the weaknesses in the rotation were masked by being pitted against weak lineups, and clueless managers, but still, things were just going right: bunts were being put down, in the rare circumstance that one was in order; errors were non-existent; Papi was being Papi; Schilling looked like a certifiable Ace and Beckett looked like the Beckett of the National League (wait for it, wait for it...) So, why wouldn't I feel bold enough to proclaim my team tops of the AL East? Why wouldn't I get up in my buddy, Tim's face, and gloat about the Red-Hot-Sox? And with the Yankees struggling against the league's punching bags, and with Randy Johnson failing to throw harder than Jennifer Stewart, and A-Rod doing his best impression of that Third-Basemen/Team-Owner guy from the Fidelity Investments commercial, why wouldn't I declare the Yankees season over?! With the Sox on fire, the Yankees in the dump, and the AL Central chock-full of legitimate contenders, why wouldn't I be so certain of the Yankees demise to declare: "I am so certain of the Yankees missing the play-offs that I will tattoo the Yankees logo on my ass if they do!" It was the proclamation of a fan in heat. It was a statement made in a moment where your slightly flawed team has just given you such a fantastic 17 game stretch that you can't help but sigh and light a cigarette, pull up your shorts, and pound your chest a bit. And maybe you are feeling a little too good about what you've just landed, and maybe the pock-marks on your teams ass are going to look alot more abundant, and the cottage cheese-thighs in your bull-pen are going to become a lot less appealing when you strip off the forgiving National League East under-garments, but right now? Right now, you are on a roll, king of the world, and you've just cruised to 16 loud and wild finishes. Your team is looking perfect. And yeah, so what if you have had a couple beers?

The thing about my gambling tendencies is that when I am laying down that big stack of chips, or betting twenty that Shaq sinks the next free-throw, or even declaring the Yankees dead ( as they are 3.5 games out of the Division BEFORE the deadline) is that I don't know that I ever truly believe in my own wager. It's like I am making the wager against myself. I might lose that big stack, or that twenty; I might end up with that NY logo, that talisman of "improbable odds conquered with the power of endless payroll" stamped on my ASS FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY, but even though everyone within hearing distance disagrees with me, myself included, if by some chance I am right...well...then I will have been the only one who knew better.

The problem with this bet, of course, was that it was completely irrational. Over the course of 162 games, things happen. Players get injured; managers go on benders; the guys on your team who used to juice, just can't get their hands on the good HGH that the guys on the other team sure seem to be taking...I mean, the possibilities are endless. Especially when it's July, and certain asshat general managers still have the ability to sign off on baffling transactions that only serve as reminders year after year that there are fans of certain teams in this world whom God, and their own General Managers, truly do not care to help. Now I'm not a welch, and I may be a whiner, but I brought this on myself. There is not a doubt in my mind that had I kept my stupid mouth shut, the Sox would be marching away with the AL East division title as you read this. Had the Gods of Karma (whom, it is rumored, have keen senses of humor) never overheard my promise to tattoo the NY on my buttocks--immediately deciding this prospect was to good to pass up--the Sox division lead would be about 7. They would not have gone 14-12 since I made that stupid bet. Meanwhile, the Yankees, most certainly would not have gone 16-7 during that same stretch with an outfield consisting of Judas Damon, Milk-Dud, and that kid that looks like Butters. Had I kept my stupid mouth shut, Trot Nixon would be healthy, Jason Varitek would not only be healthy, but have found the fountain of youth, Roger Clemens would be on his way to Boston (just to picth tonight, before turning around and flying home for four nights), Bob Abreu would be off in Central America hunting down his loosely moralled ex-fiancee, and Derek Jeter's new Cologne would come in one of those unecessary, tacky, gift packages, with a stick of A-Rod's purple lipstick. Alas, I had to open my stupid mouth. And now instead of feeling so relaxed about the Red Sox prospects that I could just TiVo the game and go get drunk in an Air-Conditioned bar tonight, I will be sitting in my AC-free apartment, with my window fans blasting, clicking maniacally back-and-forth between MLB games praying that Chien-Ming Wang gets a case of the yips, Vernon Wells finds his stroke, and Jon Lester proves Theo a genius for insisting that his promise was so great that we shouldnt let go of this kid for Andruw Jones or Roy friggin' Oswalt.

And one last thing: Tim and I have tickets to the August 19th day-game match-up between the Sox and Yanks at Fenway. I am feeling pretty damn confident that the Sox will be five games out by then. So, confident, in fact, that I would place a wager on it. If any one is interested, I have one spare ass-cheek open for the taking.

Erin Andrews in a Papelbon Jersey

2006-08-01T07:33:00.000-07:00

First of all, I am pretty sure, there is nothing more oddly attractive then Erin Andrews filling a spot for ESPN's broadcast of last night's game in a loosely buttoned Jon Papelbon jersey. Nevermind the fact that she probably knows less about baseball than my pinky-toe, yet gets paid to spend every day with professional baseball players, solely because she is pleasant to look at. For about 5 minutes there I was wondering if the Sox could make an 11th hour trade deadline deal of Papelbon straight up for Erin Andrews. Given what the Red Sox did with their other major deadline acquisitions and given the whole "Yankees fleecing the entire state of Pennsylvania" thing, the Sox seem to have an uphill battle ahead of them anyway. The least we could have as fans, is Erin Andrews in the bullpen in a jersey and hot-pants. Lets make this happen, Theo.

Because, let's be honest. Theo certainly didn't make anything else happen. Am I upset about that? Sure. Do I think it severely limits the teams ability to win the AL East or even make a playoffs push given the moves made by other contenders? Absolutely. While it is easy to look at this deadline myopically (and plenty of sports writers are doing so) the bigger picture is really what the Sox have in mind. Did Theo and the brain-trust potentially sacrifice a shot at the playoffs this year for potential to excel down the road? That remains to be seen, but what is certain is, the Sox have committed to a philosophy that promises to keep the Sox competitive for years to come, and furthermore--and I say this with no sense of hyperbole--makes it more fun for the fans. Now, granted, nothing is more fun than watching your team win a play-offs series (especially if it is over your rivals, or it is the World Series) but in modern baseball, with a few exceptions like the Braves, team loyalty for the fans truly has turned into "rooting for teh laundry."

With free-agency, the yearly salary dumping by teams like this year's Phillies and Pirates, and the tendency over the past 10-15 years to trade youthful promise for high-priced talent, it is hard to identify with players, and much easier to simply identify with a team, even if that team is constantly in flux--a veritable wind-mill of all-stars and veteran utility men--something like a fantasy team. Now I love fantasy baseball, but I also think there is something to be said for following a guy like Jonathan Papelbon from AA ball to a spot in the Major League Bullpen, don't Red Sox fans enjoy his success more than will Dodgers fans enjoy the first Win Greg Maddux wraps up in his new, and awkward uniform? Maybe it is sour grapes, but the thought of Roy Oswalt winning 7 or 8 down the stretch for the Sox is exciting, sure, but not nearly as enticing as the thought of a pitching staff that includes 4 guys I have followed from their minor league struggles, through their MLB debuts.

While I understand the need for National Networks--ok, National Network--to fill time and stir the pots of interest (gotta keep that rivalry going or ratings will dip in August) I couldn't be less impressed than I am by these immediate "grade the deadline" segments they run. Forgive me if the fact that Steve Phillips think the Red Sox are losers doesn't make me too worried about the team's prospects this year. After all, Steve Phillips wasn't even good enough to be the General Manager of a team that traded one of the best future prospects in recent memory for this guy. Talk about myopic.

So this might be a rough two months for myself, and any other Red Sox fan. We may, indeed, be forced to watch the likes of Jason Johnson give away game after game, while Bobby Abreu hits his stride and goes yard on Sports Center every night. Alas, we still have a bright future to look forward to, and can continue to root for the same guys we always have. And should they win the World Series in 2008, well...then that will make the champagne taste all the better.

Having Said all that I still see the sox winning 96 games. The question now, is whether two of the other three (Yankees, Twins or White Sox) can win more. As long as the Sox have Papi, Manny, Schilling and Papelbon, I say they are in the race.

Mnookin, not just a funny last name...

2006-07-07T11:56:00.000-07:00

Seth Mnookin, whose column on the whole James Frey situation was discussed on my myspace blog earlier in the year, is about to drop what looks like the next sports book to be added to my collection (sorry for the link overload there.) My brother and I have discussed to some great extent the complicated 2005 Red Sox season, and the emotional crash that followed the World Series, with the front office bumbling all over itself, the Manny drama, and the corpse of Kevin Millar blocking my favorite young players path to stardom. Mnookin's book couldn't be coming out at a better time for me. The day after it's release (and my birthday) I head out for my wedding and a two week honey moon. I think my anger over last years season has subsided, and my love for Manny is great enough that I can laugh off his characterization of the owners as White Devils. This is probably just because winning heals all wounds. This season has all the feel of the 2004 season, with even the streaky play (see 12 game win streak followed almost immediately by three tanks in Tampa) and a studly back-end bullpen looking eerily similar. If Beckett can pitch more like the Beckett of June (was his success all thanks to the National League lineups he faced?) they even have the devestating Double-Ace punch. After a disappointing series, they head in to a HUGE series with the Cap'n Oz and the Pale Hose in the Chi-town Cell. Things to watch:

1. The argument that says the White Sox advantage in the AL over Boston is "pitching, pitching, pitching," will be put to the test. The Sox have their three hottest arms dealing in Lester, Beckett, and Schilling. They will be facing the three best pitchers for the White Sox in Buehrle, Garcia and the lucky Jose Contreras (you'll remember him from my Popmatters article on Cuban baseball.) If the Sox starters can out-perform Chicago's go-to-guys in two out of three games, it would be a huge moral boost for the staff.

2. Man-'Tiz vs. Tho-'Nerko. The 1-2 punches on each team are the best in their respective divisions (and probably the best in all of baseball.) All of the focus is going to be on which one of these brutal duos is more productive, but...

3. Look for the role-players to be the difference-makers in this series. Tonight is the biggest game of the series, and a few Red Sox whom you might not immediately expect, have taken the rake to tonights starter--the guy filling Schilling's spot on the All-Star roster--Mark Buehrle. Jason Varitek and Covelli Crisp are going to take Buehrle behind the tool-shed tonight, and that will be the difference in the series.

Look for the Crimson Hose to take 2 of the 3.

Enjoy the weekend!

Geoffrey

hot warm nervous hands

2006-07-06T06:12:00.000-07:00

Welcome World!

For a number of reasons I have decided to move my Blog over to this site from myspace. First of all, it is a little bit more user friendly, and I like the look of it better. Most importantly, though, it is easier for people to access this site. Hopefully I can eventually get family members and more friends on board to peer into my daily ranting, and get all voyeuristic on me, as well. This will help to cut down on those group emails everybody loves to write but hates to receive, as well. Alright...what to expect: I think this should, more or less, be a continuation of my previous blog (thoughts on books, movies, music, etc..); I am hoping it will be less personal ("feeling voyeuristic today?!") type of stuff, although chances are that stuff will still pop up as a means of keeping people filled in on what's going on; expect more politics. Speaking of politics: eventually I am going to link this to another blog that I hope people will checkout called "Tremendous Slouches." This is a site my friend Tim and I are going to get going in order to get some banter and exchange some ideas on politics, sports, whatever. Basically a good cop/bad cop type of deal.

Ever Thus to Deadbeats

Currently reading: Ulysses

Here's the problem with Ulysses and, more importantly, the treatment the book receives from academians: it is treated far too much like some sort of talisman. There is a myth that has been propogated by the Joyce scholars that the book is an "untouchable," and that it cannot simply be picked up and enjoyed but must rather be poured through with strenuous study and appreciation of the fact that every page is teeming with religious symbolism, historical and literary reference, and dense prose. This myth is both true, in context, and false, in general. Having attempted to read Ulysses before without the proper "reading guide," or any guide for that matter, and knowing now how helpful such a book can be, I can say with little uncertainty, that background literature helps, if only to filter through the density of the nuances and references. However, it can be intimidating, and downright put-offish to suggest it is impossible, or wrong to do so. The problem with the way scholars approach the book, as described recently in the New Yorker by Joyce's own grandson (who seems a bit of a crumudgeon, I'll admit) is that it turns away the regular reader. Many people, myself included, had been under the impression that reading Ulysses is an almost insurmountable task, best left for the academics and pretensious snobs. This prevents a whole mass of people from picking up one of the best books, in my mind, ever written. What makes the novel amazing, rather than intimidating, is the very fact that so much history, literature, and religion can be referenced in each page. Does it help to have a guide to sort through all of this information? Absolutely. Is it impossible to read even with the help of such a guide? Certainly not. To travel through Dublin as a foreigner, one can only benefit from a tour guidebook. In many ways this novel is a tour through Dublin in a literary mode. A guidebook can't hurt.